I’m offering a recipe for what I think is one of many perfect martini recipes. Strawberry Moon in New England comes around the same time that locally grown strawberries are ready to pick. So, adhering to the idea of eating what’s in season and locally grown, here’s the recipe:
One ripe locally grown strawberry
One and a half ounces Hendricks gin
Sugar as needed
Ice one small rocks glass in freezer for 15 minutes, then run the rim with the strawberry and dip in sugar as desired.
Muddle the strawberry in the prepped glass.
Put two ice cubes into the prepped glass and pour one and a half ounces of iced Hendricks gin over the ice.
Enjoy the fresh taste of NE strawberries and luscious Hendricks. As dessert to a strawberry, spinach, blueberry with feta salad? Impeccable.
Enjoy the warmth of the season.
When I wore mascara a year ago or so I noticed my eyelashes weren’t normal. They used to bang up against my glasses when I put on mascara so I thought, “Hm. Old tube of mascara, better replace it.” Now, I don’t wear makeup that often…oh who am I kidding — ever…so it really has been about a year since I wore it.
Trust me when I tell you I bought the kind that was supposed to make my eyelashes look like they were the longest, lushest, most perfectly flared butterfly wing lashes that would send gale force winds across the room when I blinked my eyes!
And after applying it I thought, “Where in the heck did my EYElashes go?!!” I’ve written about hair and menopause before (insert link to that post) and I think that’s it. Hair I want is slowly thinning while hair I don’t want is showing up in random places!
In this case, it seems my lush eyelashes have migrated to my nostrils.
Seriously. How else do I explain the skimpy lashes coupled with the sudden sprouting of nose hair? That I can see without a magnifying mirror? Sound disgusting? Oh, yeah, and it’s not even happening to you.
I wonder what people listen to while they’re running. I’m blessed to have access to hundreds of acres of undeveloped land in New Hampshire and have taken up running with my retired sled dog. When I say “running” I really mean a combination of easy lope, fast hiking, and power walking along trails of varied terrain.
My soundtrack is the susurrus of the wind in the trees, the jingling of Storm’s tags, our footfalls in the leaves, and the beating of my own heart. Shhhhhhh…
I’m riding in a pickup truck with my husband, late to an event at a country club restaurant. We’re riding in a pickup truck along a beach, blasting along with no time to spare. Burt Reynolds is driving, I’m sitting next to him, my husband is on my right. Where we need to go is up a long climb, up a bluff…or something that most resembles a cliff face but it’s got lawn. Greenery. It’s a country club, so we’re going to climb up their golf course. Burt downshifts so we get good traction as we start to climb from the beach. He’s grinning the signature “Smokey and the Bandit” grin as the truck slews around the sand. The lawn/sod/golf course is being churned up by the truck but it seems like all the emerald green is being rolled up as we go so it can be laid back down. The engine roars as we climb and Burt Reynolds is laughing as we top the cliff.
We slide to a halt in front of one of the club’s buildings.
This is a fragment of the night’s action adventure dreaming. I don’t wake from this, and I don’t remember what came after. I know a cat sleeps in the bed with me, and my retired sled dog is dreaming in his crate as I experience another action adventure in my dreamtime.
Food porn. House porn. Terms that have come into daily use as a result of over the top TV reality shows that bring us the biggest, the best, the most amazing whatever-it-is or the worst, the most awful, hideous whatever-it-is followed by the incredible makeover of it with the expectation we’ll be titillated, captivated, droolingly mesmerized by it all.
This is how I felt being subjected to Ariel Castro’s uninterrupted justification of some, and denial of other, of his actions as I sat in the director/TD chair in the controlroom of the news outlet for which I freelance. I’d offer you a link to it but then I’d be contributing to what I see as a decline in the industry. It’s gone beyond the pictures of smashed up vehicles or some other spectacular (but not in a good way) video about which I used to say, “Well. That’s revolting, yet oddly fascinating.” We’ve come to have a lineup of train wrecks, shootings, murders, bombings, kidnap and tortures in micro-focus. And to what purpose. To capture the attention of the viewer inundated with media choices by providing them with the most excruciating telling of detail it makes me want to cover my ears and turn my eyes away.
I don’t know who sits, watching unflinchingly, as we present it all. If it’s “most viewers,” then I wonder who those viewers are, and what their lives are like that they stay awash in it all. Ratings continue to fall for television news…perhaps it’s because viewers have the choice to turn their eyes away and figuratively cover their ears by choosing outlets other than television.