Over the years, Marianne and I have learned the best way to get the house cleaned up in a hurry is to invite friends over for dinner. The key is to have a tight, but firm deadline. It also helps if the friends are casual and of more recent acquaintance. We need to know enough about them to be intrigued, but not so much that we're aware of skeletons in the closet. This reinforces our efforts to make a good impression.
In order for house cleaning to qualify as "aerobic," it has to be done rapidly with a deadline looming. It helps if the person initiating the cleaning effort has internalized a feeling of righteous indignation regarding some real or perceived personal affront. My wife does this better than anyone I know; but, I can work up to it with a little gestation time.
On the list of "to do" items, one of the first priorities is removing those unsightly cobwebs high up on the walls next to the ceiling. We have the cleaning implement with the long handle and nylon spikes that snag them as it is rotated. Often, the last cobweb doesn't reveal itself until guests have arrived and we're sitting down in the living room.
Another "to do" item is removing everyones' stuff from common spaces and returning it to appropriate bedrooms. Stuff often includes coats and sweatshirts cast off by their owners as they enter the house upon returning from another conquest. Orphaned shoes and socks are among stuff strewn about the floor. There are also textbooks with intriguing titles, such as Principles of Chemistry or History Alive lying forgotten by their owners on the dining room table. Particular attention is required to separate active homework assignments - those in progress and yet to be turned in - from those already graded and deemed no longer useful disregarding their utility in studying for upcoming tests.
A complicating factor in putting away stuff is making an accurate guess as to who is the rightful owner. Before Rowchik headed off to college, she and Pretty in Pink by virtue of being teenaged girls, shared many similar wardrobe items. Shirts and jeans were easily confused items and sometimes placed in the wrong bedroom resulting in grumbling and consternation. Stuff of uncertain origin tends to gravitate toward Evster's bedroom where it occasionally submerges for spans exceeding six months. Typically, the owner is blissfully ignorant of it's absence, but proclaims her dire need when the item is later excavated during Evster's infrequent room cleanings.
One pitfall of aerobic house cleaning, especially if it continues until the guests arrive (knock loudly; so, I can hear you while I'm running the vacuum cleaner), is maintaining sufficient energy reserves to juggle dinner preparation with ongoing conversation. When we are busy in the kitchen, inevitably, guests congregate there as well and offer assistance, when it appears we in over our heads. As we often are.
For Thanksgiving dinner a few years ago, we invited not only my octogenarian father and step-mother, but also a running buddy and his wife both in their mid-seventies. After we had exchanged pleasantries and talked for a few minutes in the dining room, Marianne and I returned to the kitchen to monitor the turkey roasting in the oven while I diced vegetables for a green salad and she whipped Yukon Golds to a creamy consistency. Thirty minutes later, we realized our guests had seated themselves around the dining room table while chatting amiably, sipping wine, and munching hors d'oeuvres. Chances of someone leaving the conversation and slipping away to offer assistance in the kitchen were remote.
Clearly, we were going to need plenty of stamina to get dinner on the table and, afterward, follow through with dessert and coffee plus extended kitchen clean up after their departure. Hardened by similar miscalculations during the intervening years, we have learned to balance the ratio of seniors to spry forty- or fifty-somethings to increase our odds of survival.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
Weed Eater Landscaping
First a confession, I generally take a live-and-let-live approach to landscaping. If a volunteer plant is attractive and adds visual interest to our humble plot in suburbia, I spare it from the wrath of the weed eater. Over the years, I've done especially well at nurturing acacia trees. The finest example is a volunteer winging upward from our front terrace. At nearly 20 feet high with branches spreading 15 feet across, this tree makes a valuable contribution to our privacy by partially blocking the view from the street and keeping the neighbors at bay.
By contrast, when it comes to backyard landscaping, the weed eater has been an essential tool. Of all the utilitarian gifts my father has bestowed on us over the years, this is the most useful. In a space roughly 80 feet wide by 15 feet deep, the weed eater tames unruly spring bunch grasses and wild blackberry canes in a matter of hours.
Preventing undesirable plants - some call them weeds - from regenerating has become a priority this spring due to the El Nino weather system affecting the California coast this past winter. As bunch grasses approached waist height during March, I realized quick action was needed. While the weed eater was just the ticket for getting down to soil level, the only way to eliminate plant regeneration was to dig them out by the roots. This needed to be done while the ground was still soft from recent rains, otherwise heavy artillery such as a multi-tined rototiller would be required.
On a bright unseasonably warm Saturday morning, I set upon the offending roots with a sharp spade and began heaving root-laden clods of dirt onto the back patio. Both arms and back as well as feet received an intensive workout during the intervening hours as concrete slowly disappeared beneath upended grasses. Stubborn root networks required persistent shovel work and digging in a circular pattern around submerged clumps while exerting downward force with both feet balanced on the recurved top edge of the blade. Final clean up involved transferring the grasses, roots and attached earth into a large compost receptacle where wind-born seeds could be prevented from sailing away to colonize neighboring yards.
With grasses tamed, the most noteworthy feature of our backyard is a persimmon tree which lights up in reddish-orange hues during the fall months leading up to harvest time. In recent years, the tree has displayed impressive fecundity bestowing dozens, if not hundreds, of fuyu persimmons on us during the months of October and November. For years, it appeared to thrive on our benign neglect.
Then two summers ago, I became curious as to why the bunch grasses grew so luxuriantly in the middle of the yard adjacent to the patio while at the sides ground cover would die back leaving barren stubble by the end of the season. I decided to investigate. After days of scrutiny, I noticed the area populated by waist high bunch grasses seemed to be continually damp. Not long after, as I cranked the water spigot located on the back wall of the house trying to stop the last few drips falling to the concrete, I had an epiphany. The leaky faucet was responsible not only for the grasses, but also the abundant persimmons!
On the downside, this blew away my theory of benign neglect and necessitated periodic watering by hand. In an effort to conserve and go green, we placed a five gallon bucket in the downstairs shower to catch cold water during the 45-second warm up phase. Every two or three days, the contents of the unwieldy bucket were splashed around the base of the persimmon tree. Subsequent fall persimmon harvests have validated our new water management initiative.
By contrast, when it comes to backyard landscaping, the weed eater has been an essential tool. Of all the utilitarian gifts my father has bestowed on us over the years, this is the most useful. In a space roughly 80 feet wide by 15 feet deep, the weed eater tames unruly spring bunch grasses and wild blackberry canes in a matter of hours.
Preventing undesirable plants - some call them weeds - from regenerating has become a priority this spring due to the El Nino weather system affecting the California coast this past winter. As bunch grasses approached waist height during March, I realized quick action was needed. While the weed eater was just the ticket for getting down to soil level, the only way to eliminate plant regeneration was to dig them out by the roots. This needed to be done while the ground was still soft from recent rains, otherwise heavy artillery such as a multi-tined rototiller would be required.
On a bright unseasonably warm Saturday morning, I set upon the offending roots with a sharp spade and began heaving root-laden clods of dirt onto the back patio. Both arms and back as well as feet received an intensive workout during the intervening hours as concrete slowly disappeared beneath upended grasses. Stubborn root networks required persistent shovel work and digging in a circular pattern around submerged clumps while exerting downward force with both feet balanced on the recurved top edge of the blade. Final clean up involved transferring the grasses, roots and attached earth into a large compost receptacle where wind-born seeds could be prevented from sailing away to colonize neighboring yards.
With grasses tamed, the most noteworthy feature of our backyard is a persimmon tree which lights up in reddish-orange hues during the fall months leading up to harvest time. In recent years, the tree has displayed impressive fecundity bestowing dozens, if not hundreds, of fuyu persimmons on us during the months of October and November. For years, it appeared to thrive on our benign neglect.
Then two summers ago, I became curious as to why the bunch grasses grew so luxuriantly in the middle of the yard adjacent to the patio while at the sides ground cover would die back leaving barren stubble by the end of the season. I decided to investigate. After days of scrutiny, I noticed the area populated by waist high bunch grasses seemed to be continually damp. Not long after, as I cranked the water spigot located on the back wall of the house trying to stop the last few drips falling to the concrete, I had an epiphany. The leaky faucet was responsible not only for the grasses, but also the abundant persimmons!
On the downside, this blew away my theory of benign neglect and necessitated periodic watering by hand. In an effort to conserve and go green, we placed a five gallon bucket in the downstairs shower to catch cold water during the 45-second warm up phase. Every two or three days, the contents of the unwieldy bucket were splashed around the base of the persimmon tree. Subsequent fall persimmon harvests have validated our new water management initiative.
Have Cane Will Travel
Breakfast preparation for Mother in law is often delayed because she can't locate her cane. Typically, she appears in the dining room about 8:30 am explaining her tardiness with the remark, "I've been searching all over for my cane and I can't find it anywhere! Have you seen it?" "Take a look in the dining room," I suggest, knowing it's on the back of a chair.
Mother in law actually has two canes: a slender telescoping model in a subdued neutral gray as well as a high tech quad variation featuring outspread feet with non-slip rubber grips on the bottom of each. This is the mobility equivalent of four-wheel drive for octogenarians. Our driveway is one of the steepest around, approaching a 20% grade. I've suggested to Mother in law she could scale it with her quad cane and fetch the morning newspaper while I'm busy grinding the coffee beans (see my 04/02/10 post).
Invariably, both canes are in one of two places: hanging from a drawer pull on her clothes chest across from the bed or positioned on the edge of the dining room table or a nearby chair back. I can't recall either cane being abandoned in a wayward location. This leads to an observation for Mother in law: If not at location A, I should stop searching there and hustle out to location B. So far, this doesn't seem to be clicking.
When breakfast has concluded and she's had a chance to restock her Kleenex supply - one, sometimes two, in each sweater pocket, another up each sweater sleeve, and a backup in her waistband - we are ready to embark for the Lutheran senior center a few miles away. First, we execute an approach to the car parked in the driveway and distanced from the house by two sets of steps. As we maneuver into position for a step down from entry way to front porch, Mother in law shifts her cloth-handled bag and telescoping cane from hand to hand looking for optimum purchase. I extend another hand to ensure a secure transition.
With both feet planted on the porch, Mother in law pauses a few seconds to make sure no essential item has been left behind. "Do I have my coat?" she asks. "You're wearing it," I say helpfully. "Where's my cane?" she adds in a worried tone. "It's hooked over your left arm," I reply while pointing with my free hand.
Next, we climb three steps from porch to driveway. Stepping up is comparatively easy. I open the car door and motion for her to approach. Mother in law takes a few steps then pivots her backside toward the seat. Slowly, very slowly, she lowers herself into the car until she can bend no further. With a relaxed - plop! - she drops the remaining six inches into the seat. Cautiously she swivels the left foot over the door sill, then the right foot. Keeping an eye out for errant appendages, I close the door, walk around to the driver's side, and position myself behind the steering wheel. Together, we wrangle the buckle on the seatbelt into the catch at the side of the cushion while dodging the curved handle of her cane. "Nobody ever said I was graceful," she remarks. I place the transmission in reverse and gun the Jetta up the driveway to the street. Mother in law is off on her next adventure.
Mother in law actually has two canes: a slender telescoping model in a subdued neutral gray as well as a high tech quad variation featuring outspread feet with non-slip rubber grips on the bottom of each. This is the mobility equivalent of four-wheel drive for octogenarians. Our driveway is one of the steepest around, approaching a 20% grade. I've suggested to Mother in law she could scale it with her quad cane and fetch the morning newspaper while I'm busy grinding the coffee beans (see my 04/02/10 post).
Invariably, both canes are in one of two places: hanging from a drawer pull on her clothes chest across from the bed or positioned on the edge of the dining room table or a nearby chair back. I can't recall either cane being abandoned in a wayward location. This leads to an observation for Mother in law: If not at location A, I should stop searching there and hustle out to location B. So far, this doesn't seem to be clicking.
When breakfast has concluded and she's had a chance to restock her Kleenex supply - one, sometimes two, in each sweater pocket, another up each sweater sleeve, and a backup in her waistband - we are ready to embark for the Lutheran senior center a few miles away. First, we execute an approach to the car parked in the driveway and distanced from the house by two sets of steps. As we maneuver into position for a step down from entry way to front porch, Mother in law shifts her cloth-handled bag and telescoping cane from hand to hand looking for optimum purchase. I extend another hand to ensure a secure transition.
With both feet planted on the porch, Mother in law pauses a few seconds to make sure no essential item has been left behind. "Do I have my coat?" she asks. "You're wearing it," I say helpfully. "Where's my cane?" she adds in a worried tone. "It's hooked over your left arm," I reply while pointing with my free hand.
Next, we climb three steps from porch to driveway. Stepping up is comparatively easy. I open the car door and motion for her to approach. Mother in law takes a few steps then pivots her backside toward the seat. Slowly, very slowly, she lowers herself into the car until she can bend no further. With a relaxed - plop! - she drops the remaining six inches into the seat. Cautiously she swivels the left foot over the door sill, then the right foot. Keeping an eye out for errant appendages, I close the door, walk around to the driver's side, and position myself behind the steering wheel. Together, we wrangle the buckle on the seatbelt into the catch at the side of the cushion while dodging the curved handle of her cane. "Nobody ever said I was graceful," she remarks. I place the transmission in reverse and gun the Jetta up the driveway to the street. Mother in law is off on her next adventure.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
No one here, but us ghosts
It's volleyball season for my younger daughter, Pretty in Pink, and that means frequent tournament travel. A few days ago P in P and her mother, jetted cross-country to Baltimore for a three-day event. Marianne called the first evening to say they had finally arrived at their destination and she was pausing to catch her breath before rounding up the rest of the team for dinner at a nearby restaurant.
On the home front Mother in law, Evster, and me were rattling around the house involved in our respective projects with most interaction during meal times. Although our household is typically subdued, when P in P and Marianne are traveling, the decibel level drops another notch. On occasion, Mother-in-law, will call out in a forelorn voice, "Is anybody home?" If one of us responds to this inquiry, the follow up question is, "Where is everyone?" This requires a person-by-person accounting for everyone's whereabouts and when they are expected to return.
Several hours later, Mother in law decides to check in again. "Where is everyone?" she says with uncertainty. Help! Someone hit the replay button.
Of course, one could always respond, "No one here, but us ghosts." Given Mother in law's broad superstitious streak, this might be risky. Evster seems to be most successful at projecting a ghostly presence. Often he's perched in front of his computer in the family room ostensibly doing homework. But, toggling back to video games when parental attention turns elsewhere. Somehow, by remaining quiet and nearly motionless he eludes Mother in law radar. If he doesn't become a politician, maybe, the kid has a future as a big game tracker.
On the home front Mother in law, Evster, and me were rattling around the house involved in our respective projects with most interaction during meal times. Although our household is typically subdued, when P in P and Marianne are traveling, the decibel level drops another notch. On occasion, Mother-in-law, will call out in a forelorn voice, "Is anybody home?" If one of us responds to this inquiry, the follow up question is, "Where is everyone?" This requires a person-by-person accounting for everyone's whereabouts and when they are expected to return.
Several hours later, Mother in law decides to check in again. "Where is everyone?" she says with uncertainty. Help! Someone hit the replay button.
Of course, one could always respond, "No one here, but us ghosts." Given Mother in law's broad superstitious streak, this might be risky. Evster seems to be most successful at projecting a ghostly presence. Often he's perched in front of his computer in the family room ostensibly doing homework. But, toggling back to video games when parental attention turns elsewhere. Somehow, by remaining quiet and nearly motionless he eludes Mother in law radar. If he doesn't become a politician, maybe, the kid has a future as a big game tracker.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Grinding the Beans
I'm not a coffee drinker. At least I wasn't until six months ago when my mother in law came for a visit and never went home. After a lifetime without having made a cup from scratch, my duties as primary care provider required that I learn. The first rule of coffee preparation for Mother in law is that hotter is better. This precludes making a cup ahead of time and sliding it into position at her table place. Always wait to see the whites of her eyes. This is foreshadowed by the tapping of her cane as she enters the dining room.
"Do you have any coffee?" she asks, as though I just might have a spare pot freshly brewed and waiting. But I haven't forgotten rule number one.
With porcelain mug at the ready, I balance a filter holder on the rim and pluck a 2" natural brown Mellita from the box. Oh yeah, gotta have beans! I grab the foil bag with the rolled top and shake out a handful of beans into the grinder reservoir taking care not to overfill. On the side of the grinder is a vertical row of green lights. At first I ignored them. A week or so later, I realized this is my visual cue as to how long the grinder motor is engaged. 10 seconds for four cups; 20 seconds for eight cups; and so on. No point in protracted grinding when it isn't needed.
Ground up beans go in the filter after measuring with the v-shaped spoon. Two scoops per 16 ounces of java. I try to economize on occasion when I'm running short on beans, but Mother in law seems to be calibrated for two-scoop aroma and flavor intensity. "Dave, what's wrong with this coffee? Maybe you should dump it and start over." Second rule of coffee preparation: observe the 1 scoop per eight ounces ratio of coffee beans vs water.
Meanwhile a two-egg omelet with cheese is sizzling in the frying pan and English muffins are browning in the toaster. Mental note: don't forget to top off the coffee with a second pour and deliver to the table ahead of the meal. This reduces the likelihood of a second inquiry about coffee availability.
The critical moment comes when Mother-in-law requests a second cup of coffee. I explain that with the 16-ounce cup she has already had two. Seems as though this should be sufficient, I think to myself. When I pick up her cup from the table, I see it is still one third full. I've noticed Mother in law does not like to run low on any household commodity. "You still have a third of a cup," I say gently. She rejoins, "Yes, but it's cold and I want to warm it up." "I can heat it in the microwave," I suggest. But alas, this is not a viable option. Mother in law claims this would ruin the flavor.
I place the mug on the cutting board and, once again, balance the filter holder on the rim before adding another scoop of ground beans. Then I proceed with another pour of hot water. After it has filtered through the grounds, I return the cup to Mother in law and continue kitchen cleanup and loading the dishwasher. Later, when I'm clearing her dishes from the table I realize the refilled cup is untouched! Mother in law has returned to her bedroom. I resist the urge to inquire about coffee consumption. Apparently, she has forgotten. I decide to lay low and live to make coffee another day.
"Do you have any coffee?" she asks, as though I just might have a spare pot freshly brewed and waiting. But I haven't forgotten rule number one.
With porcelain mug at the ready, I balance a filter holder on the rim and pluck a 2" natural brown Mellita from the box. Oh yeah, gotta have beans! I grab the foil bag with the rolled top and shake out a handful of beans into the grinder reservoir taking care not to overfill. On the side of the grinder is a vertical row of green lights. At first I ignored them. A week or so later, I realized this is my visual cue as to how long the grinder motor is engaged. 10 seconds for four cups; 20 seconds for eight cups; and so on. No point in protracted grinding when it isn't needed.
Ground up beans go in the filter after measuring with the v-shaped spoon. Two scoops per 16 ounces of java. I try to economize on occasion when I'm running short on beans, but Mother in law seems to be calibrated for two-scoop aroma and flavor intensity. "Dave, what's wrong with this coffee? Maybe you should dump it and start over." Second rule of coffee preparation: observe the 1 scoop per eight ounces ratio of coffee beans vs water.
Meanwhile a two-egg omelet with cheese is sizzling in the frying pan and English muffins are browning in the toaster. Mental note: don't forget to top off the coffee with a second pour and deliver to the table ahead of the meal. This reduces the likelihood of a second inquiry about coffee availability.
The critical moment comes when Mother-in-law requests a second cup of coffee. I explain that with the 16-ounce cup she has already had two. Seems as though this should be sufficient, I think to myself. When I pick up her cup from the table, I see it is still one third full. I've noticed Mother in law does not like to run low on any household commodity. "You still have a third of a cup," I say gently. She rejoins, "Yes, but it's cold and I want to warm it up." "I can heat it in the microwave," I suggest. But alas, this is not a viable option. Mother in law claims this would ruin the flavor.
I place the mug on the cutting board and, once again, balance the filter holder on the rim before adding another scoop of ground beans. Then I proceed with another pour of hot water. After it has filtered through the grounds, I return the cup to Mother in law and continue kitchen cleanup and loading the dishwasher. Later, when I'm clearing her dishes from the table I realize the refilled cup is untouched! Mother in law has returned to her bedroom. I resist the urge to inquire about coffee consumption. Apparently, she has forgotten. I decide to lay low and live to make coffee another day.
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