tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80926080393275521112023-11-16T06:27:28.353-08:00MuddledErin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-54038468305153301452019-04-14T18:25:00.000-07:002019-04-14T18:25:05.181-07:00Freebies for me!! I like second hand stuff. <div>
<br /><div>
But I love free stuff. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One girl's trash is another's treasure. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Last weekend, we took my husband's octogenarian parents to an Asian grocery store to buy fish. At checkout, my in-laws were given a free bottle of apricot seed kernel powder. Based on the few English instructions available, you are supposed to make something like a tea out of it. My mother in law had no interest, so she gave it to me. Having little knowledge of it, I decided to read about it. The first two Google articles talked about its toxicity, so there goes that idea. I opened the container to check out what was doing and I was pleasantly surprised. Its a very fine powder, lighter than beach sand with a beautiful floral smell!! Too good to add to the potting soil via the compost pile. A few days later, we visited family out state and my stepdaughter in law gave me a bottle of sunflower oil that she accidentally bought at the grocery store and she won't use. BAM! I see an opportunity for sexiness. This afternoon, I got out one of my cute little jars and i mixed up a luxurious bath scrub to take into the shower with me. It left my hands super soft, I'm pleased to admit. I used a very tiny bit on my face to counteract the light Retin A peeling I'm currently experiencing. Its absolutely the most beautiful smelling stuff ever and I'm looking forward to regular use! </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
See? Doesn't have to cost a fortune to look and feel good! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHVCr2WdyzB5TVKThnBIqLvBEB3i7tUsGDisdNcyKnhdg9EVGs0FG-u1VB-yeYhV9I14pgtA7u1OLUcaC2dMp3MQwEJm_dQsqqaVOU8YWtNTbDYGLJN_6IhkRHtgfTRLTuP0uKT0KrHU/s1600/IMG_20190414_102407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjHVCr2WdyzB5TVKThnBIqLvBEB3i7tUsGDisdNcyKnhdg9EVGs0FG-u1VB-yeYhV9I14pgtA7u1OLUcaC2dMp3MQwEJm_dQsqqaVOU8YWtNTbDYGLJN_6IhkRHtgfTRLTuP0uKT0KrHU/s320/IMG_20190414_102407.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-84160904591044508722018-09-05T12:32:00.001-07:002018-09-05T12:40:14.257-07:00Every Little Bit Counts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglPDBpqGA6ZKKRRLSHYWehuYlO0JqrFF6fL8dQh0XmPTvU40GLEWVB10jqHWH7VBzpNFxXGwVHlSHbKJLzO9JvQPDaSCOFkjjc1svMOygxWQO5BZ8Y2r77dzcgdAgtM6QM3_qUSK-vgTw/s1600/IMG_20180905_121919.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglPDBpqGA6ZKKRRLSHYWehuYlO0JqrFF6fL8dQh0XmPTvU40GLEWVB10jqHWH7VBzpNFxXGwVHlSHbKJLzO9JvQPDaSCOFkjjc1svMOygxWQO5BZ8Y2r77dzcgdAgtM6QM3_qUSK-vgTw/s320/IMG_20180905_121919.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I enjoy music, podcasts, Howard Stern and YouTube videos throughout my day, but I really like audiobooks (to the tune of one every week or two) because though I do not have a college degree, I do think that with a high school education, interesting life experiences and a hell of a lot of reading about every stupid little thing, I have some significant knowledge on a wide host of subjects. I am okay at Jeopardy too, ask my mom. My current book is called The Zero Waste Home by Bea Johnson. I'm really enjoying it and feeling inspired to try new things, but I also am realistic about how it fits into my life. This lady is married with two children and she has managed to get her family's disposable waste for one year into a 1 quart container. I, on the other hand am having a hard time getting a week's worth of recycling into one car to take to the bottom of the driveway. My husband and I will never get to her level. I have no intentions of spending six months of my life trying to formulate homemade shampoo that he and I can both use for our two very different hair types. I am trying to make some positive changes though, and to my surprise, I have found that they have not only been embraced but have been a source of inspiration for others. When I went to the grocery store today, I decided to pack my reusable shopping bags with plastic containers and previously used index cards. When I showed up at the store, I had my open containers on the counter and without hesitation I requested that they put my cold cuts into my dishes because I don't like single use plastics. They cut up my stuff, weighed it and packed it into my containers and I applied the lid. She printed out my label and applied it to the paper. The girls at the deli not only found this to be a cool idea, but they expressed interest in doing it themselves. I told them that I was enjoying it so far and nobody has given me any crap about my out of the norm request. "Well, I'm a manager here so if anyone gives you crap in this department, let me know because I think this is great". This was a new concept with the checkout girl too, but one I explained my system, she was on board. Putting the groceries away when I came home was slicker than snot on a doorknob because everything stacked nicely into the refrigerator. This is not a huge money savings nor will I be receiving any thank you cards from the polar bears, I just like it. The tiny difference makes me feel good, and when it feels good, it is sustainable. Next thing to go at my house is the paper towels and disposable napkins- I have tons of fabric napkins, towels and handkerchiefs that ones I never use. Again, this is not stuff that is going to change the world, but it works in my world. That will have to do for now. </span>Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-6508936555416036232018-08-22T16:03:00.000-07:002018-08-22T16:03:05.984-07:00Hey stranger. <span style="background-color: white; color: #2c2d30; font-family: "Proxima Nova Regular", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">Your true traveller finds boredom rather agreeable than painful. It is the symbol of his liberty - his excessive freedom. He accepts his boredom, when it comes, not merely philosophically, but almost with pleasure. – Aldous Huxley</span><br />
<br />
Well, it certainly has been a while hasn't it?<br />
<br />
I would like to think that I'm a little older and wiser, but I've moreso found that I'm more battle-hardened, introverted and set in my ways, like a proper almost 40 year old who feels 60. My days are spent with stupid to the point of manic amounts of hobbies and interests (I put in an Amazon order today for additional homemade deodorant supplies), voice lessons with my friend Allison (a year and a half and I still avoid Karaoke Night), housekeeping (reading everything I can about the uses of castile soap), cooking Weight Watchers friendly meals (twenty five pounds down), shooting groundhogs in the ass with a BB gun to keep them out of the yard (woodchuck is not listed in the WW app, hence my nonlethal methods) and trying to get the bills paid off and get the beach house built so that my husband can retire sooner rather than later. I live in a new house, I have new dogs, I have new step-grandchildren. It's still summer, so I am drinking beer more than wine (in moderation- Weight Watchers afterall). Instagram (@emgeraci) is cool, I get to post photos of my food and hobbies. Nothing scandalous, so of course that makes it pretty boring in the social media world. It's all about the stuff that makes me happy. I spent too many years whining and focusing on things that make me miserable. I have Twitter, but I find it uninteresting. Everything is now so sterile; its too damn difficult to say something that someone isn't offended by. <br />
<br />
"Today I went shopping with my best friend and I got a new hat!"<br />
"My sister doesn't even have a head, you insensitive bitch!"<br />
<br />
It makes for extremely boring posts. <br />
<br />
There are worse things than being boring. I prefer to think of it as unlimited potential for growth. I'm never bored, and what others think of me is none of my damn business. It's also none of my business if your sister has no head. Bottom line: if you continue to check in, I may occasionally talk about something that you're interested in. At least it can help pass the time...<br />
<br />Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-76651329110432383992015-07-24T21:56:00.001-07:002015-08-04T11:00:21.391-07:00Oh Oh The Places You'll Glow!<br><div style="color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">My Grandma Jo passed away almost exactly 2 years ago. One of the things that I always remember about her was her pretty jewelry. She had a nice combination of costume things and modest gemstones with occasional smatterings of diamonds that she enjoyed wearing. As a kid, our Saturday mornings had pretty much the same routine-put pennies in my pink pig bank, make a cake, eat cereal with canned milk, and then clean her rings with a toothbrush. So when she passed away, I received some things, like a few of her costume brooches with plastic pearls and printed flowers that I enjoy wearing with my scarves and jackets. My personal taste in jewelry is much different than everyone else in my family. I love my big sparkly, some would even say gaudy, statement pieces that swallow half of my hand and make my décolleté sparkle like Paris while my mother, sister and aunt have more modest jewelry collections. Little gold diamond pinky rings are pretty much only to my taste and to my grandmother's, so when it was offered to me because no one else would wear it, I was thrilled. I remember this particular ring in a chic supporting role while she held a cup of Sanka and ate a piece of cake with a paring knife. Of course it fits me perfectly, I have her hands. As a kid, I bit my nails to the point of bleeding, and it made her so crazy that she threatened to put chicken poop on my fingers. Rings didn't look very nice on me at the time. After retiring from the shoe factory after 52 years, she pretty much only left home to go do the shopping and spent the rest of her time at home with her Chihuahua eating Utz Party Mix. Her pretty baubles didn't go very many places, they w<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">ere </span>for her pleasure and she didn't care who saw them if anyone. I, on the other hand really like to get out and about and travel, so my jewelry comes everywhere with me. We just returned home from a cruise last week, and I wore her diamond pinky ring almost every day. Each evening I got my picture taken in a pretty dress, and it is in almost every picture. I have traveled many places around the world with it; it has seen white Caribbean sand, busy streets of Times Square during Christmas season, holidays, fancy dinners and parties where it reflected the bubbles of my champagne, all things that she never experienced and, well probably never dreamed of either. I think about these things when I wear it. I think about her. I'm sure I don't clean it enough to suit her. Just like my grandmother and eventually me, it will get dirty, tarnished, and the stones will get old and cloudy, it will be sometimes neglected, but never lost without a slender digit to call home. There is always another adventure, another cup of instant coffee to hold. And when I am done, I will pass the baton, or in this case, the toothbrush to someone else to continue the journey. </div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmyEb4a8QL1dnPJWmXSXrM-ckdpuZomtCFVAg4QJhgCVkcQsvwKEKdIOdCv3aJbPRl_ujGXDw9s0Yt5mmdXtYB60AMOLZTzdqkJQxXH_tAq3FpBzkbp-vNGgUydy6gxmvlp5Y97CGEFbs/s640/blogger-image-1824191456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmyEb4a8QL1dnPJWmXSXrM-ckdpuZomtCFVAg4QJhgCVkcQsvwKEKdIOdCv3aJbPRl_ujGXDw9s0Yt5mmdXtYB60AMOLZTzdqkJQxXH_tAq3FpBzkbp-vNGgUydy6gxmvlp5Y97CGEFbs/s640/blogger-image-1824191456.jpg"></a></div>Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-76927836684504703102014-12-09T12:37:00.001-08:002014-12-09T12:52:37.703-08:00Wrinkles in Time: What I've Learned So Far<h2>
Happy Birthday to me. </h2>
<div>
Big number 36 is fast approaching. I like to think I'm holding up pretty well overall, but there are obviously some issues associated with middle age. Some observations I've made over the past few months have come from both supportive and not-so-supportive family and friends. Sometimes I learn the most about myself and priorities by the latter. <br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
1. I'm putting on weight. Good thing layers are in style. And according to Jimmy Buffett, wrinkles only go where smiles have been. Who says I'm pessimistic? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
2. The number of varicose veins you have correlates directly with the number of sarcastic comments you <u>really really</u> want to make in the course of a day. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
3. Even at age 36, poop jokes are still funny. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
4. My husband can now trade me in for two 18 year olds. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
5. There is a strange dynamic that exists- I definitely care less about what others think of me, yet I find that I am becoming more opinionated, even harshly critical. Too early to be a crabby, bossy old lady, I need to be at least my mom's age for that (her sense of humor remains intact fortunately). More than 50% of my gripes are little things, and less than 10% of them are any of my damn business. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
6. In many aspects of life, such as saving money for retirement, raising children and getting an education, "shit just got real'. It really is the moment of truth, time to see how badly I have screwed up over the last 15 years. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
7. My teenage stepsons don't get O.J. jokes, they haven't the slightest idea who Christopher Reeves is, and singing "I'll tell ya what I want what I really really want!" when placing my order at a restaurant goes over like a lead balloon. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
8. BINGO with my mother, aunt and sister is starting to become something that I am looking forward to. When I was a kid, Mom and Aunt Sharon were thrown out to the fire hall parking lot for being mouthy. Sounds like my idea of a good time. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
9. I am told that I have reverted back to the teenage mentality that I know everything. Either I will eventually grow out of it or others will come to just accept this as fact. Either way, I consider it personal growth. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
10. Some of my efforts to stay young and modern end up really demonstrating how middle aged and out of it I really can be. I still say "Cool beans!" when the guys come home with good news, and I fight the propensity to call my grandson "Little Dude". I know I can't control the world, and protecting our little ones from all the evil that will inevitably tempt him is not possible, but if things go smoothly in his upbringing, he will go through life without ever seeing a Pauly Shore film, thus maintaining the high IQ with which he has been blessed with by virtue of genetics. That's a job well done. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-83430564235472394872014-10-01T08:28:00.002-07:002014-12-09T12:40:11.286-08:00Autumn Awesome: The Cool Comfy Fall Style I Live In<h3>
I wrote this as a "job interview" as a freelance writer for an online fashion magazine. I didn't get the job, guess they couldn't handle me. </h3>
<br />
<br />
I love summer. I love the sunshine, I love my garden, I love the birds and the little backyard animals I see as I sit on the porch and drink my morning espresso before the intense heat of the day sends me heading for shade. Its always my busiest time of the year because the kids are out of school, the lawn is at its neediest for mowing, and tenants in my rental houses have a tendency to use their rent money to take vacations. Its easier to take the good with the bad when you're wearing adorable little sandals and linen in a variety of pastels that make me feel as light and cool as the breeze at dusk. I am always sad to see summer leave; in fact, its very much an anxiety. Even at age 35, I still feel the same panic I did as a kid because school would be starting soon. But an interesting thing happens: every July, I start seeing the fall fashion roll in. Suddenly, I am missing my leather boots and comfy cardigans. As the flowers shrivel, my wardrobe possibilities open. I am most drawn to new patterns, cuts and silhouettes that give me a young and modern take on my wardrobe staples. My style is definitely classic- I love timeless styling and fit with some trendy modern touches. I'll be headed out later today and my outfit is already picked out- a vintage Armani silk and cashmere fitted jacket with a pink and purple Coach silk scarf tied loosely, Hollister slim fit jeans and my beloved Buttero riding boots. That's pretty much me in a nutshell. The jacket was one of my beloved thrift store finds that never goes out of style. It needed an update for this season, so I rolled up the sleeves to just below the elbow showing 2 luxurious inches of light blue silky lining. In the interest of timeless beauty and fit (and always considering my hourglass figure that I enjoy so much) here's what I've got my eye on for fall.<br />
<br />
<i>Old Navy 3/4 sleeve Jersey dress</i><br />
<a href="http://oldnavy.gap.com/browse/product.do?cid=91343&vid=1&pid=155478012">http://oldnavy.gap.com/browse/product.do?cid=91343&vid=1&pid=155478012</a><br />
<br />
For me, the knee length hemline screams classic beauty. The ruched sides and the stretch of this one are very forgiving and add a soft comfortable visual. Think Marilyn Monroe running out for coffee. Truth be told, I have already purchased this in all three colors. Take advantage of the free shipping over $50. <br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Moma Buckled Flat Boot</i><br />
<a href="http://www.headstartshoes.com/moma-black-buckled-flat-boot-4060-ma19/dp/12247">http://www.headstartshoes.com/moma-black-buckled-flat-boot-4060-ma19/dp/12247</a><br />
<br />
A good pair of leather boots in a timeless style is a great investment. I haven't decided yet if I want to buried in my Butteros or if I want to leave them to my niece in my will. I think that buckles and chains are too trendy, heel heights go in and out season to season and year to year. Learn how to polish good leather shoes, or ask your drycleaner if they perform shoe polish and repair in house. For such an investment, you'll likely have to get new soles after a few years. Don't cheap out on the upkeep. Good polish and good replacement soles when needed will keep them looking great for years. <br />
<br />
<i>Handmade scarves</i><br />
<a href="http://kramascarf.com/shop/">http://kramascarf.com/shop/</a><br />
<br />
The French girl in me almost always has a scarf on hand. From wool to silk to synthetics, different weights, patterns, and ages. I have everything from vintage silk Givenchy, another thrift store find, to the purple wool one my stepson brought home from Afghanistan for me. I like a little bit of a story behind my scarves, whether it was a cherished gift from a loved one in a far away land, "I got it for $2.99 at Goodwill!" or, as above, the items are handmade and profits benefit charity. For me, it really is the key component to making my outfit a little different each time I wear it. Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-28312017679217700032014-08-27T09:46:00.001-07:002014-08-27T09:46:43.187-07:00Too Fat for Fendi<div>Too Fat for Fendi</div><div><br></div><div>My French heritage tells me that I should not be having this discussion in public. But my redneck upbringing says hell with it. </div><div><br></div><div>I am packing on the pounds. I think at this point I might be considered slightly overweight. It really breaks my heart because the Joseph Altuzarra for Target collection is coming out on September 14, and though most of the clothes will be available in my size, they won't look the way I want them to. I am too big on top for many of Diane von Furstenberg's famous wrap dresses. Along with what I feel is rather uncontrollable weight gain, I'm having some other issues that I think I need to sort out medically first. Towards the end of the month I go to the doctor for the first time in three years. I'm going to ask for some blood tests to make sure that it's nothing physical. If I'm clear, I know the problems are all in my head, which is where the hard work is. </div><div><br></div><div>One of my favorite quotes is from my youngest stepson who at age 13 said to me "We would get along much better if you would just let me do whatever I want". It's a good thing he's cute, otherwise he would be dead by now. I don't think I have to explain to you why that was so funny (and I did laugh, which made the tense situation even worse regrettably) and also why it's so true about everything. If I'm unhappy with exercising and not eating the things that I want to eat, would I be happier at 300 pounds because I did exactly what I want to do? I would certainly be enjoying the food, but that happiness and satisfaction is transient. I really don't care what society thinks of me. I'm too old for that bullcrap. But I do care about what my husband thinks of me. When my husband tells me that I'm beautiful, I really take it very seriously. I believe him, and I wanna be that way for him. I also believe him when he tells me that a certain bathing suit doesn't look as good as it used to. It's hurtful, but I also appreciate his opinion and don't resent him. Honesty always makes me happy. I think it's important for me to be a positive role model to my stepsons and to my grandchildren. I have a granddaughter now, and like my niece before her, I would like to instill in her a healthy body image and attitude about food, exercise and weight. I want to make sure that I'm able to roll around on the floor with my grand kids. The day I was doing somersaults with my grandson on the living room floor was a memorable one. Hanging upside down the swingset with him? Yes, that was a good day too. I looked my best 20 pounds ago, can I get there again? I'm almost 36 now; in our society, that's really not old. I would have to work hard. Is it worth the hard work? That's the rub. </div><div>Screw society stereotypes of what a woman should look like. I am not an airbrushed model. I can understand the pressures of Hollywood movie stars. They make their living by looking their best at all times. Even when walking the dog. Work can dry up very quickly in that industry, and the expectation is to have an unsustainable lifestyle that forces them to work. A vicious cycle that I'm glad to be unaffiliated with. I would look like Elle Macpherson if I could afford a personal nutritionist and trainer. Pay me $1 million to take my picture, and I'll reconsider a more aggressive diet. But I'm a landlady. Do I need to be back down to 110 pounds? With so much disease in my family, it would be good for me to ensure that my weight stays down. If I don't, I'm screwed in more ways than in my wardrobe. It always comes down to what my barriers are. Frankly I think my barriers are just laziness. Too many temptations in this western society. I know these are my issues. Could I eat dry lettuce and chicken breast all day every day for the rest of my life? Yes. Would I be happy that way? No. I want to drink good wine by the gallon. I want to eat homemade pasta. Alton Brown's chocolate ice cream recipe made with raw milk is to die for. </div><div><br></div><div>I'm supposed to end this with some kind of conclusion or some point to take action on that would be of interest to you. I really don't have one. I'm unsure as to what my next move should be. Do I accept my fate and enjoy life? Do I make a significant lifestyle change just to be able to wear clothes that I really can't afford anyway? I'm going to die of something in the end. I already gave up the cigarettes. I can't give up the iced coffee too. That will kill me faster than the high blood pressure I am almost certain to inherit. What's my real yin and yang? I guess I'm not alone, otherwise everyone would be skinny.</div><div>A pretentious and juvenile way to put it I guess would be a personal journey down the fashion runway of life. I know I don't have the energy to wear the 5 inch heels, so I guess I'll just find something that I'm comfortable and confident wearing. </div><div>Is it worth spending our lives getting dressed up if at the end of the show we don't get to keep the clothes? </div>Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-48566929575238424772014-05-21T20:10:00.001-07:002014-05-21T20:10:26.577-07:00Thirsty for Something: Make Your Own Booze and Appreciate It, TooThere is something to be said for homemade booze. <div>Here's what I've been up to. <div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div>First <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I chose to make limoncello, a very traditional Italian liqueur. I used a potato peeler to peel about two dozen lemons, then my favorite paring knife to fillet off any of the white pith that may add unwanted bitterness to my concoction. I dropped these peels into a jar to mingle with two bottles of 151 proof grain alcohol for about two weeks. Next, I drained them, then added sugar water to the mix and left it in a large pitcher for these favors to marry overnight. Next, I bottled. Friends and family have been enjoying it as an aperitif for the past three weeks. I have a taste every evening as I'm making dinner for my husband and me. For me, it's a celebration, a little giggly pat on the back for a good day of work. How better to reward myself for a successful day of labor in my kingdom (my rental properties of which I am queen) than with a little drink that I made with a few hours of my own labor? I keep it very cold in the refrigerator and serve it in a small cordial glass with a stem so that the warmth of my fingers doesn't prematurely deprive me of frosty cold pleasure. It makes me happy because I think that just maybe the heat I feel on my arms might actually be warm tropical sunshine instead of the gas burner of the stove threatening to singe my arm hair. In the same way I pretend traffic noise is distant ocean waves when I am sitting on our porch, I think of my homemade limoncello transporting me to another place, somewhere that things aren't produced en mass without attention by uncaring strangers, but to a comfortable place with cozy chairs where things are thoughtfully crafted, designed for enjoyment by and with the ones I care about most. </span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">This evening, I corked seven bottles of orange wine made from an old folk recipe. A few weeks ago, I juiced the oranges and poured them into a two and a quarter gallon crock from an antique market. To this I added yeast, a piece of toast (yeast makes the magic happen, people!), and a couple of other things, and I left it sit happily corked in the garage for 3 weeks. Having spent an hour sterilizing my equipment in preparation, I am please to announce that it rendered 7 full bottles. Corking them with the rubber mallet wasn't the best part; I admit that I did not have the patience for my Portuguese free standing corker to arrive in the mail. They are now down in the basement in the bar units that were once shoe racks for our kids. They will rest for a year, and then they will be ready for me to enjoy. Such an exercise in patience for me! Well, maybe I'll be OK. There was enough left in the crock to make a third of a bottle that I parked in the fridge. What's my plan? I'm thinking a backyard party for next year, a homemade wine and food pairing in my pretty little yard with my veggie garden and my koi pond. That really is a big part of the enjoyment of wine- the sharing of the experience with others. Food and wine has a way of bringing people together. The need to eat and drink is something we all have in common. It's meant to be. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Nothing is sadder than a lonely wino, especially one who doesn't appreciate what the hell he's drinking. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">As I write, I lay in bed half <i>stunata</i> on my orange wine. As I continue my education in enology, I'll be able to calculate the alcohol content in my creations. I'm currently not fit for math. But you know, I am relaxed, I feel creative, I want to share what I am feeling. I'm having an experience. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I created something. Cool experience, and I'm enjoying it. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I'm looking forward to sharing it. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">It's gonna be a long year. </span></div>Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-87322155142847439992014-03-11T09:18:00.001-07:002014-03-11T09:30:14.008-07:00Good Mom Bad Mom: A Procreation Deliberation<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mothers. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We all have one. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I say we, I mean every living being on this planet. Reproduction is fundamental to our survival as a species. Everyone runs on the same cycle of birth to childhood under the protection of the parents, to puberty and adulthood, when the reproductive cycle begins again. Sorry feminists, but the ancient sentiments of man finding a good cave and spearing a yak for his woman who will be barefoot and pregnant for life do still exist, maybe not so much in our American culture, but we didn't write the book on raising kids. Or maybe we did. When I searched Amazon.com for books with the words "raising a child', it brought up 29,000 results. In its rudimentary form, reproduction and parenthood sound quite simple and natural, but the world is full of people who will tell you what you're doing wrong. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My husband is half Sicilian and half Korean, and his 80 year old mother would still cut his meat for him if she wouldn't get the <i>malocchio</i>, the evil eye, from him. He will tell you with equal amounts of tenderness and embarrassment that when he was 22 and in medical school he had to ask someone how to laundry. My mother-in-law and I have a caring relationship, but I don't think she would mind if I told you that she doesn't like that I made her grandsons, my stepsons, do their own laundry at age thirteen. That's a cultural difference between she and I. She was a housewife who worked hard to provide all of those physical comforts to her husband, son, and now grandchildren (typically accompanied by "Stop spoiling them, Mom!"). Her mother died and she became the "woman of the house" at age nine, cooking, cleaning and washing clothes on river rocks for her siblings and father. That's where she comes from, and I have to remind myself of that when she shows up with garbage bags to haul her grandsons' smelly clothes to her house. It is a caring and loving duty that she undertakes. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even though Dad took care of almost everything, I always felt like my busy career oriented mom was accessible. She finished her bachelor's degree when I was in elementary school. During my teenage years, she traveled three evenings a week from her full time job to her master's program three hours away and back home to Perry County. She was raised by her schoolteacher grandmother. Her mother, Grandma Jo worked at the shoe factory for 51 years. It was natural for me to start work at 16. Because we worked at the same place, I was always expected to work hard and be on time. She was quite tough on me, never hesitating to unmercifully chew me out in front of staff if warranted. And when I went home, I did my own laundry and was expected to help around the house. Admittedly I stunk at it. I still have a hard time keeping a clean house and dirty laundry from overflowing, but guess what, so does Mom.</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mom taught me her work ethic. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I don't have time to be scared, I have $%!? to do" will always be my favorite Mom-ism. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have the luxury of working from home, something she was never afforded and maybe would never want anyway. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For me, it's important that my stepsons know the value of a buck, how to work for it, and how to take care of their basic needs without relying on others. We perfected the fried egg years ago. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think I do all right. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't think my mom has many regrets. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My mother-in-law thinks she has done a good job. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Is there such a thing as a good mother?</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Is there such a thing as a bad mother?</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Who is to say which parenting styles are right or wrong?</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My mom always told me that there's a difference between a mom and a mother, so maybe its a subconscious choice that one makes?</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe the children are the judge, but as someone with five stepsons, I will tell you that just because they're mad doesn't necessarily mean you did something wrong. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So am I a stepmother or a stepmommy? I guess I'm concluding that only I can decide, and my opinion is the only one that should count. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Don't agonize over it, Erin. Go start the fire and clean the cave. Keep it simple. </span>Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-56937876511606868342014-02-10T19:12:00.001-08:002014-02-11T20:27:36.143-08:00The Fungus is Among Us: Preparation for Woodland Adventure<br><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The time has come. I must prepare myself. </span><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Hiking boots. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Knife. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Jacket and hat. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Maybe the camo. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My bag. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My walking stick. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I anticipate the hunt. A trip to the wilderness to uncover my thus far elusive prey. I see it in my dreams. I smell it, taste it. I crave it. Once you know it, you will want it too. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Yes, my friends. The season approaches. The treasured prey I speak of...the morel, also called the hickory chicken, dryland fish, or sponge mushroom. My Perry County cousins post photos on social media every season of their fist sized beauties. I am envious, salivating and motivated. I prepare by reading about their hiding places. I burn their image into my mind with photographs as they can be difficult to see. I wait for my suburban lilacs to bloom, and I will know the time is right. The blooming of the dogwood trees is another good indication. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">My busy schedule the past two years has not made much room for the hard target combing of my 14 acres. By July, I typically regret that it did not have a higher place in my Springtime priorities. But this year will be different. I am going to make the time.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"> </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">If you do an Internet search, you will find that foragers do not share their morel gathering spots. When people find them, they typically keep their stash a secret, some going so far as to wear camo and "Army crawl" through the woods to the riches, which of course can change season to season, further elevating the thrill of the hunt. Most afficionados collect them to enjoy their goodness at home, some people sell them to local stores and restaurants for a premium price to be eaten by diners who frankly don't quite understand what they are eating. I, on the other hand, am extremely greedy. I want them all for myself. How convenient that their season begins just as I am cleaning up the grill! These babies don't make themselves easy to find either. Their tall, hollow honeycomb caps blend in with the leaves perfectly and you could step on them without even noticing. The rich black dirt around fallen trees is a great place to start looking. Wet and warm is best, all is dependent on rain and temperature. They can be dried and preserved for future use, but alas this humble writer is too impatient and hungry for such nonsense. A favorite preparation of mine is to clean them well in a sink of cold lightly salted water (salt will help pull out any dirt and tiny critters), chop and create an earthy risotto to serve with a grilled steak and veggies (my meal is not complete without some green). Add a glass or two of Cabernet and I am in Heaven. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Or maybe you might like them fried with butter and garlic. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Or on a rustic whole wheat pizza. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I would love to puree them and mix them with semolina for homemade pasta. A tagliatelle tossed with garlic infused olive oil maybe? </span></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">I'm getting giddy! Holy mackerel! </span></font></div><div><font face="Helvetica Neue Light, HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">No, not mackerel, wouldn't go at all. But chicken, yeah. A light marsala with rustic red skin smashed potatoes. </span></font></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Any way you choose, it is a meal that is savored and appreciated for what it is. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It is a labor of love. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">An exciting find. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">An adventure. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Like Indiana Jones...and the Temple of Shroom. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I crack myself up. </span></div></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">On a serious note, if you decide to give it a try, do your homework. Accept no substitutes. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Happy Hunting! </span></div>Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-70390585650371107502014-01-13T16:00:00.000-08:002014-01-13T18:24:34.810-08:00Hope Springs Irritable: Is Winter Over Yet?!
<br>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As published in the March 2014 Hibu Publications</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The deep roots never doubt spring will come- Marty Rubin</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Spring is on its way, and I couldn’t be happier! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am so tired of the cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that I am not alone when I say that
this was the most uncomfortable winter that I can remember.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The January cold snap gave us problems with
the heating system and left me cuddling with a space heater for two days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m ready for some sunshine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I miss my garden horribly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the fall, I left the leaves in the backyard
to ensure that the bees have a place that they can winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The koi in the pond have settled to the
bottom for an icy nap. I miss them and look forward to seeing them soon. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My nearly fatless
dog has been dressed in layers for the past several weeks.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He misses his walks, but is very happy to be
in his bed with his heating pad.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have
to keep a close eye on him as he will sneak little “accidents” in the house just
to avoid the frigid temperatures. My husband installed an awesome bathouse for me. We had one or two curious passersby in the fall that will likely return in May and set up in there with pups, and I am so excited to have these new additions to the Team Geraci Headquarters. For Christmas, my parents bought me a butterfly house made out of a gourd that needs to go in the shady area near the perennial bed. My windows creak with the cold wind. Pretty soon, they'll be opened to allow a morning breeze through the house that takes the stagnant dust off the bookcases and breathe new life into its living occupants. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My dwarf citrus trees which usually occupy the warm and sunny deck in the warm months are lined up in the living room.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They look tired, cold and frankly miserable in their formation with the furniture, breathing in the dry filtered air and drinking nothing but ice cubes and mist from a plastic spray bottle.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">They are yearning for the life giving sunshine drinking clean rain water.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The cool breezes that pass through the yard give them a workout strengthening their branches while the pot absorbs heat keeping the roots cozy warm. In a few years they will give me fruit, but they need to grow up first. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am never so excited about a huge to-do list as I am with the impending springtime multitude of tasks. Soon I will be sewing vegetable seeds under lights in the garage. I love the anticipation and excitement I feel when I see that first tiny little green leaf push its way up through the dirt. Its so full of energy and strength. The seed has been sitting in its cramped little envelope for weeks and months waiting for warm light. I can really relate to how the seeds feel. Perhaps that is why I enjoy gardening so much. I am always sad to see everything die in the fall; I get attached to the plants that I raised from nothingness and into green bountiful glory. In the fall, I wither right along with them. Life goes on though, and I have people that depend on me to not hibernate with my garden critter family. So here I am, sitting back in my depressing little dark and dirty spot, patient for just a little bit longer. Soon, it will be my time to bloom, take off my socks and stretch out my ten little roots in the backyard. I can't wait to get back out there. Everything around me, the weather, the seeds, even the dog require my patience. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It's on its way. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I couldn't be happier. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br></span></div>
Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-41668710082546327112013-12-09T07:55:00.002-08:002013-12-09T07:55:35.669-08:00My Endorsement of Jazz: Who Rescued Who?<h4>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As published in the February 2014 Hibu Publications</span></h4>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtlQ06quFFdy8_YCMYHvamwJbXex7NuQ7P2EJuhZIS21z_22ZZNbgxFDvVtg4yC9q9BkGYYqpUTGlb4cChUrMwRRk2CtVTkkPFC69JOFv_cZcDKHSKThCKsOZ3gYdCYexBz8-Bo4bFBrs/s1600/Jazz&Mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtlQ06quFFdy8_YCMYHvamwJbXex7NuQ7P2EJuhZIS21z_22ZZNbgxFDvVtg4yC9q9BkGYYqpUTGlb4cChUrMwRRk2CtVTkkPFC69JOFv_cZcDKHSKThCKsOZ3gYdCYexBz8-Bo4bFBrs/s320/Jazz&Mom.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">February is fast coming, another busy month for this humble writer. Valentine’s Day and President’s Day are this month, but there are also some lesser known holidays, such as Love Your Pet Day (Feb. 20), Walk the Dog Day (Feb. 22), and of course International Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day (Feb. 23). February also means a lot of birthdays to me, and as much as I adore my husband, sister and niece, there is someone else who has a birthday this month. My dog Jazz turns 11, a great milestone for this “rags to riches” pup. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I started nudging at the husband for a dog after my elderly cats passed away. The idea of spending the day working at home without companionship was an uncomfortable proposition for me. I did months of internet research to first find the perfect breed and then the perfect critter. After applications, interviews and home inspections, I made the rainy journey to Philadelphia to pick up my new “kid” just before Christmas 2011, an 8 year old Italian Greyhound from a rescue program. I was instantly smitten with him. He was greeted by my family warmly, and my parents and sister welcomed the new addition with sweaters and a “Grandma Blanket” which he snuggles under daily. It was obvious that Jazz was not treated well at all- his skin was dry and scaly, ears and nails filthy, bony, and mostly bald due to years of malnutrition. This was a little guy who, frankly, needed me as much as I needed him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There were lots of things that all of us had to get accustomed to: we had never had a family dog before, and Jazz had never had a family. He had previously never eaten dog food, so this was all very new for his little digestive system. I had never before had a pet that had so many needs, such as a winter wardrobe and sunscreen to protect his hairless parts during the summer. Since he has been with us, he is much less timid than before, though we can clearly see his emotional scars. He is my work partner and travels with me everywhere. He loves the trips to the bank because he always gets a snack at the drive thru window. Tenants always welcome him enthusiastically, neighbors say hello, and social media friends see frankly too many pictures. He’s become an honorary student of my karate class. A popular guy, like the cute star quarterback in high school, but he’ll always be Mommy’s Baby. But like I said, he is turning 11 this year. His hair on his face is turning gray and though he was never really the type to run around the house and play, he has more inclination to nap these days. As I write this, he is sitting on his favorite chair in the living room, wrapped up under the Grandma Blanket and staring at me with his big eyes, whining for me to come pet him and kiss him on top of his bald wrinkly head. Its almost time for bed, a soft crate draped with a blanket. The heating pad inside is on a timer to click on at 8:30 so that it is toasty for him when he climbs in. </span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEUidWe6LVutmIApqB21ogbufLYqWpRlZzlVbL0a2RPpwKfPkyItuhsCsNU5XV1fUcQmgmsrncOQA-FpjvriPD6dmGuIpaP_ElwJWX2s6Y5T56DrRSKCjCchCLGAXKuWiMcTm3rMahHFQ/s1600/Jazz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEUidWe6LVutmIApqB21ogbufLYqWpRlZzlVbL0a2RPpwKfPkyItuhsCsNU5XV1fUcQmgmsrncOQA-FpjvriPD6dmGuIpaP_ElwJWX2s6Y5T56DrRSKCjCchCLGAXKuWiMcTm3rMahHFQ/s320/Jazz.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As grateful as I am to have him (and I thank my husband regularly for such a gift), I feel very cheated. I wish he and I had found each other years ago. He came to me as an old man, frail and uncared for. He now lives a life of luxury, something that I think he has earned. As with all things, he will not be around forever, so I will enjoy the time we have. It will definitely hurt to say goodbye in the end, but I can’t live my life thinking about that. It’s wasted time, time better spent napping in fresh clean puppy pajamas or taking a W-A-L-K. We still have plenty of time for city and camping adventures. Though our time together is short, Jazz and I are both better off for it. We’re very lucky to have found each other. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So now you know the story. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Gotta go. It's Cuddle Time. </span>Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-20211370869097996202013-11-05T09:26:00.000-08:002013-11-05T12:50:56.297-08:00New Year's Disillusion- My Plan for 2014Here we go, kids. Its New Years Resolution time, or as the pessimist in me calls it, The Year's First Premeditated Implosion. Now is the time to completely put away any of the self awareness that I may have accumulated over the last year and keep making the same old promises to myself that I know deep down I will never keep. I love starting out the year knowing that in about a month, I will be labeling myself as a failure. But yet, I continue to do it to myself, and I think a lot of other folks are in the same boat. Because I was curious, I researched the top resolutions for 2013 as gathered from users of social media websites. I wasn't surprised. Number one was change in diet and exercise, followed by save money, get organized, and drink less. As I read this and I contemplated my experiences of the past year and what I have learned about myself, I realize something- all of these things are very general while the reasons why I have my bad habits that need "resolving" are specific. For example, I am a sugar addict and I should cut back. I crave sugar when I'm stressed. If I try to cut out the sugar, I start to bite my nails. So which one do I start with- the stress management, the sugar craving or the nail biting? Big resolution, lots of little ways it can fail, and for me, it always does. Spending less money has the same pitfalls. Am I shopping because I need new pants, or because I'm bored and avoiding the sink full of dishes waiting at home? Does 'stop being bored' need to be added to the resolution list? You see how quickly it can snowball out of control? <br>
<div>
I'm 35 now. </div>
<div>
<div>
I am never going to be in a size 2 again because I like being able to eat whatever I want. I need to just accept this and enjoy my dessert. </div>
<div>
So perhaps that's a good resolution: Focus more time on who I am as a person. Learn something new about myself by experimenting with who I am and what I can do. I think that if I keep things very specific, like on a to-do list, I can check things off and my success is documented. If I fail, what was the barrier that kept me from success? </div>
</div>
<div>
I think, this year, I would like to lessen my carbon footprint. Pick a week and see how little garbage I can create. Every time I reach for something processed, that wrapper will be staring at me. Then come the questions- how does the piece of fruit as opposed to the candy bar make me feel? Instead of hitting the take-out place with all of its packaging for lunch break, maybe I should take along last night's leftover lasagna already packed in Tupperware. What's the hang up there? What am I missing out on that the trip to the sandwich shop provides? It can go down deep if you follow the hole. </div>
<div>
My waistline wins, my compost bucket wins, my family wins because I'm cooking more instead of ordering a pizza. I remember 'Be a better spouse and parent' from that Top10 list!</div>
<div>
I'd also like to follow the three day detox diet designed by a Hollywood celebrity dermatologist who guarantees me beautiful skin. Its only three days, not 365. What if I look better and feel better afterwards? Can I take that feeling of small success and grow it into something bigger and even more meaningful?<br>
Only if I really want to. </div>
<div>
So I think that's where I am for 2014. Short, obtainable challenges that I don't have to worry about failing because they can teach me something about myself, whether I succeed or not. Gain something from it, then try again. </div>
<div>
Another good resolution: Don't wait til January to get to know yourself. Every day's a good day for that. </div>
Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-21844536183632347112013-10-10T11:44:00.000-07:002013-10-10T11:44:45.353-07:00Make Your Own Gift: Finding Holiday Happiness When The Rest of the Year Has Sucked<h4>
As published in the December 2013 Central PA Hibu publications</h4>
<h2>
<b>Life is much more manageable when thought of as a
scavenger hunt as opposed to a surprise party.- Jimmy Buffett </b></h2>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don’t mean to bring the mood down, but the holidays
aren’t as much fun as when I was a kid.
Frankly, I don’t look forward to them at all. I really dislike the month of December. I’m fortunate to have all of my family nearby
so that I don’t have to travel a long way, but there’s still lots of
preparation for meals, presents to buy, parties to plan for and attend, the
Christmas cards, all of these things that have deadlines (anyone who knows me
knows that I’m not great at that). There
are several birthdays in December (including my own) that need considered, and
business obligations that need tended to before the end of the fiscal year. These are the things that are the constants
year after year, no matter what else is going on. Its only
when December and the holidays come around that you start thinking about things
that have happened over the past 11 months.
I lost my last 2 grandparents this summer- my grandfather, whose
birthday is in December, passed away in early June, and of course, Grandma Jo
left in August. For me, that’s when it starts
to hit home. Both Mom and Dad are
without parents for Thanksgiving and Christmas for the first time. When
my stepson passed away 6 years ago, that first Thanksgiving without him was the
toughest for my husband’s family. So my
brain starts getting into those planning stages, not only to cope with the
stress, but also with the grief that holidays can bring. You can’t exactly take it off your schedule
so that you won’t have to deal. So where
can I find my comfort this year?
Obviously with family, the only people in the world who can understand
my feelings, because they share them with me.
But my crew and my husband’s crew are quite different in their own
ways. My inlaws are the
Sicilian-Korean-Catholic New Yorkers. Every
Christmas Eve has been pretty much the same since the family came to this
country in the 1920’s. Fish dinner that
includes all of my father-in-law’s Mediterranean tradition with my
mother-in-law’s unique Asian touch, relatives coming from out of town crammed
into their tiny dining room elbow to elbow, just like it used to be in my
husband’s Bronx childhood. Wine and
conversation deep into the night, games, laughter, eating until you are ready
to burst. That’s every single Christmas
Eve, and there’s a comfort that comes with that consistency. But on the other side of the mountain,
literally and figuratively, this is will be the first holiday for the Perry
County side that will be missing an entire generation at the table. We’re a small (but rowdy) crew as it is, so
the loss of two will be felt more than ever this year. My sister and I already started talking with
Mom about it, and we’ve pretty much decided that we’re going to let my young
niece and nephew decide how we’re going to do it this year. Maybe we’ll have pancakes and bacon for
Thanksgiving dinner instead of turkey, followed by a Wii Sports Championship
Tournament. Why not? Sounds like
fun. Let’s keep it exciting, bring some
carefree kid-ness back into it. Take a
break from licking our emotional wounds, make some popcorn garland and decorate
the pine tree in the backyard for the deer that come through in the early
evening. We may enjoy it so much that we
can create new family traditions that my niece and nephew can pass to their
kids. Even the Sicilian traditions with
their “old country” roots had to start somewhere. Despite the fact that both sides of my family
are very different, we all find comfort together because we share the same
human experience. We should embrace the new and the old, finding our own happy place
within it all. And it’s not going to be
gift wrapped under the tree. Sometimes
you have to go make it yourself. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-23328490879828535492013-08-11T18:27:00.001-07:002013-08-15T03:59:53.599-07:00My Kitchen on Mars: When Did Real Food Become Alien?I make a darn good pumpkin pie. It's a time tested recipe passed from my great grandmother to my grandmother to me (my mom doesn't mind being skipped because she gets free pie). It has always been the gold standard for me- it demands respect. Those store bought pies are no match. I admit I'm smug about it, so much so that a few years ago, I entered it into a pie contest at one of the fall festivals. What an emotional roller coaster it turned out to be. Off to the kitchen to create The Legend. After a few hours of preparation and some baking time, it was ready. Golden brown flaky crust, a smooth top with no cracks. I anxiously submitted my from-scratch beauty to the gray haired ladies for their judgment. The wait seemed interminable! Here it comes- the announcement of the winners! Alas, I'm disappointed. Time for the Walk of Shame to collect my rejected pan. Two ladies brought my pan and to my dismay my pie had been virtually untouched! They proceeded to poke at it with the server the same way a 6 year old pokes at roadkill with a stick. <div>"This doesn't look like a pumpkin pie. Are you sure its cooked? No one even wanted to taste it."</div><div>"Yes ladies, it definitely is cooked. It may look a little different because of the type of pumpkin I used."</div><div>"Oh!! You mean this is made of real pumpkin? I've never had that before!"</div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Are you kidding me?! What a wake up call! They treated me like I was ridiculous and for a brief moment, I let them take away my confidence. I </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">relayed this story to members of my family and I got some needed sympathy to soothe my ego (my aunt almost wet herself laughing, which is also strangely comforting).</span></div><div>Yes, I peel and cook down my own pumpkin. I take pride in my orange hands that are stained from this labor of culinary love. Admittedly, I grew up in the 1980's with working parents, so I've eaten my share of processed food. But you know, at one point we also had a garden with melons and veggies, so at least I had an idea of what the real stuff was, which is better than a lot of kids have these days. <span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">A relative </span>in Florida mailed a huge box of oranges and lemons from her trees for Christmas one year. I was in heaven, but my suburb-raised step kids (who are actually rather adventurous eaters) wouldn't touch them because they didn't look like <span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">the stuff at the store with its paint and wax coating. </span> I love growing my own food. I love my meat CSA- what a difference! So why then are my little dog and I so eager to get our fast food breakfast to share? I can make a beautiful egg sandwich with the bread machine, fresh eggs from my sister's chickens that make me practically giddy, and flavorful tomatoes and greens from my garden. <span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "> </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "> I've read the books. I'm married to an expert in the field. It scares me how easily I am tempted away from these beautiful things and into what is commonly referred to as the American diet. I dropped cigarettes 12 years ago, no sweat. Iced coffee? I can't go without it. </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">But if a study came out that said my 'decaf-cream-sugar-coconut' was going to cause me cancer in 25 years, would I cut it out for good? I know that so-called Factory Food is bad. It makes me feel ill, wrinkly, fat, and tired, just like all of the books, blogs and talking heads on TV say it will whilst quoting the big university studies that are funded by who-knows. I wonder if the researchers change their ways based on what they see in the lab rats. Maybe that's what I need to see for myself. But am I already seeing it when I look in the mirror or watch the news? I suppose I'm just part of the culture that publishes thousands of tobacco-cancer studies yet sells billions of cigarettes, sells soda for cheaper than water, and gives blue ribbons to pies made out of a can. So who are the ridiculous ones? The lab rats didn't eat my pie. Lesson learned. Am I brave enough to live with the results? </span></div>Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-14589987446053318052013-07-05T15:58:00.001-07:002013-07-05T15:58:27.622-07:00Plant Training: What My Garden Teaches Me<p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; ">As published in the July 2013 Central PA Hibu magazines</p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">A modern garden contains, for those who know how to look and to wait, more instruc</span><span class="s3">tion than a library. - Henri </span><span class="s3">Frédé</span><span class="s3">ric</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">Amiel</span><span class="s3">, Swiss philosopher and poet </span></span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></p><p class="s4" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; "><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">After a torturous </span><span class="s3">nearly 2 year hiatus due to several moves, I am pleased to announce that the garden at the new place i</span><span class="s3">s up and running! My </span><span class="s3">suburban yard is being converted from what is</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">in my opinion</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3">completely useless, manicured, cookie-cutter </span><span class="s3">fescue</span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">to beautiful raised veggie beds and dwarf fruit trees that will soon yield a delicious bounty for me to incorporate into my meal planning for the hungry brood. The positive effects of nutrition that these things provide to me are obvious (and discussed thoroughly by those more educated in such matters than this humble writer), but there are also the other benefits to consider- those teachings so beneficial to mind and spirit that when properly practiced will render </span><span class="s3">me</span><span class="s3">notably</span><span class="s3"> less compelled to nag, thus more pleasant for my stepsons to live with. See, everyone benefits from the garden, even the teenagers. And where you have teenage boys, you have a need for patience. In February, I started sowing my seeds on the plant stand th</span><span class="s3">at my husband built. Nagging and</span><span class="s3"> stomping my feet about additions to my busy schedule will not make those seeds more quickly ascend from their dark and dirty depths and into the factory generated sunshine in my garage. They are going to do their own thing on their own time. They've been doing it this way since before people were even here. Their system works, I am at its mercy, and I not only benefit from the end result, but depend on it to keep me alive. Buddhism teaches of the impermanence of all things and for me, the garden is a good place to see this in practice. We take this never ending cycle for granted. In the fall, despite anything and everything I do to nurse that lettuce that I raised from the tiny seed, it will die. It is the natural cycle of it- these plants will live, die, and return to the dirt in the form of nutrition for the next</span><span class="s3"> generation the following April.</span><span class="s3"> For food to grow and thrive as all living things do naturally</span><span class="s3">, it</span><span class="s3"> will indulge in my compost consisting of scraps from fruity counterparts from distant lands sacrificed for the cause. My kitchen bucket is filled thoughtfully, because I know that what I put in there this year will be feeding th</span><span class="s3">e stuff that I eat next year. </span><span class="s3">The si</span><span class="s3">mple act of putting my apple core into the bucket instead of the landfill makes a huge difference in the lives of the plants and humans that I value. </span><span class="s3">Despite the fact that I am one the most evolutionarily advanced beings on this planet, I must submit to this continuum if I am to survive. </span><span class="s3">My small actions matter in the eternal cycle of life. Such deep philosophical concepts can be used in all aspects of daily life, including peaceful co-existence with the aforementioned teenage stepsons. The concepts make sense; the proverbial seed has been planted. But </span><span class="s3">to take</span><span class="s3"> this knowledge and put it to positive use is an altogether different matter. </span><span class="s3"> </span><span class="s3">I</span><span class="s3">f you're not willi</span><span class="s3">ng to get in there and get dirty, </span><span class="s3">nothing is go</span><span class="s3">ing to grow but unsigh</span><span class="s3">tly and inedible weeds that, </span><span class="s3">left unhampered, will take over everything in the yard, pushing out the beautiful things that have taken years to seed down. Once you clear out the brush, you might be surprise</span><span class="s3">d by what is under there, fighting its way </span><span class="s3">into the sun. </span><span class="s3">Making positive change in life is hard physical, mental and spiritual work. </span><span class="s3">With a few more seasons of practice, I hope to get pretty good at it. No rush. I'll blossom when the timing is right. </span></span></p>Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-66231742668479081682013-07-05T15:55:00.001-07:002013-07-27T09:03:00.456-07:00Dirty Feet and Clean Dentures: My Continuing Adventures with Grandma Jo<div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">As published in the September 2013 issues of the central PA Hibu publications.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">She passed away July 27, 2013 before it could be published. </span></div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div>7AM. She arrives wearing big fluffy slippers. But they're only temporary. Once she gets inside and gets settled in, they'll come off because she would rather be in bare feet. I'm just like her. When I was a kid, I remember my grandmother, the Old Bat as I call her with great affection, telling me that she wanted to be buried in her nightgown with her shoeless feet sticking out. I spent a lot of time with her as a kid, and now, she spends Tuesdays and Thursdays at my house. As a kid, our evening routine was that of the early-to-bed-early -to-rise-for-fifty-years factory worker: supper, Wheel of Fortune, Jeopardy, bed, then up at 4:30 the next morning to clean the house before breakfast, which was typically Lucky Charms with canned milk. Sweep the beetles off the car port, make a cake, sit on the porch and swat wasps for the rest of the day. She was the original cook, the one who taught me about her Depression era favorites, like egg custard pie. When we made one a few weeks ago, she worried that she didn't remember how until I reminded her that she gave me her recipe card a few years ago ("Write it down for me before you forget it, you old bat" were my exact words, as I recall). At 86, her brain and body are wearing down, but when I set the pie ingredients down in front of her, she knew what to do with them. She crimped the edges of the pie crust and explained to me that when her mother made pie, crimping the crust was always her job. These days I have to turn the pan for her because she can't see, but her fingers know the old familiar routine. We put it together and into the oven, and while it bakes to a delicious golden brown and fills my kitchen with the smell of warm and spicy nutmeg, she tells me stories of growing up in Perry County with her 10 brothers and sisters. Her daddy grew wild hops, and he would make his own beer, wine, and 'shine at home. The railroad workers were always enthusiastic customers, and it kept everyone fed when times were tough, which was almost always. Occasionally, she and her sister would 'go fishing', but instead swipe a jug and float it between the rocks to get it cold. "We got a whippin' when we got caught, but we would always tell him, 'Daddy, if you wouldn't make it, we wouldn't drink it'". In the afternoon, she wants nothing more than to sit on the porch, and that's exactly what she and her little dog do. That is what she's always done. While she enjoys the sound of the birds and the warm sunshine on her wrinkly legs, I water the garden, pull weeds, maybe grab some lettuce to incorporate into the meal I'll send home with her in the evening. Without shoes, of course. At least once during the course of a day, she tells me, "Oh Erin, don't get old". Happens to the best of us, you old bat. She can't yodel anymore, and I regret having never asked for my lesson. She can't put my hair in rag curls any longer. But there are some things you're never too old for. A cup of coffee and a piece of pie on the porch is one of them. She and I have done a lot of talking over the years, so we can afford to sit quietly with our feet up for a while enjoying the present, even when memories of the past elude us. That pie's good. What the heck, let's have another piece. You only live once, right? </span>Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-2778927347015454162013-04-11T10:41:00.000-07:002013-04-11T10:50:05.496-07:00Avoiding the Dead Beets<h2>
<i><span style="font-size: small;">Don't let anyone rent space in your head, unless they're a good tenant.</span> </i> </h2>
Recently, as you may have read, I have been doing a lot of soul searching to find what it is that really floats my boat and motivates me. New exercise classes, new hobbies, challenging myself to be more outgoing in my social circles, and tasting new foods and growing some in my new garden that I've never grown before. In this process, I have been assessing my personality by what I choose to eat. I eat my share of beautiful things, but I was raised on, love, and fear I will never be able to live without my highly processed lovelies- cheese puffs, movie theater popcorn, bologna, hot dogs, cheese fries. All so salty and delicious that my feet are swelling just thinking about them. Quick, easy, and satisfying, prepared fast and efficiently and allow me to get back to work, but, and forgive me if I come too close to turning this into a diet blog, they really are nutritionally void, and I should stop eating them.<br />
<br />
They are bad for me. <br />
They are making me fat. <br />
I think my lousy diet is giving me wrinkles.<br />
I don't feel good about myself when I eat them. <br />
Who knows how many chemicals, pesticides and antibiotics are going into the garbage in my pantry (well actually I've just finished <i>In Defense of Food</i> and <i>The Omnivore's Dilemma</i>, so I now know more than I want).<br />
<br />
I need to stop eating crap, as the writers of <i>Skinny Bitch </i>would so eloquently phrase it. Why is it some people can part with these things, yet others cannot? I have lovely relatives that are vegan. I have been to their home for dinner. It consisted of tortilla chips, Triscuits, fresh vegetables, fruit, olives, a table full of beautiful things. After how many years now, I remember that meal clearly. I remember how much I enjoyed it and how satisfied I felt at the end. Even for just a half hour, I was healthy. <br />
<br />
I've not shared this yet, but professionally I am a landlady. I own and manage 13 properties. I didn't start off as a particularly good one, but I have learned along the way by trial and error. I've been burnt more times than I would like to admit to. I've let people get away without paying me what I am owed, and I've evicted my share of deadbeats. Over time, I have learned that to be taken advantage of and to be screwed out of money doesn't feel good, so I have had to alter my thinking, systems and processes and my ways of looking at the world and perspective tenants. I do credit checks, ask some nosy questions, and educate myself before I let people into this place that I value. There are certain things that I hear innocently come out of a wanna-be tenant's mouth that sends up my "Run Away and Burn Their Application" flag. I work hard for these houses, and these houses give back to my family. I don't let just anyone into my place. It is important for me that they take care of my house, give it what it needs to maintain it, even improve it. If the tenant is not meeting their obligation and giving me what I need, they need to go. No questions, simple policy. <br />
<br />
Why can't food be the same way? I have to take vitamins to make up for where these crappy, albeit delicious, foods are not serving me well. That's like taking money out the kids' college savings to cover the mortgage while the tenant lives there for free for 6 months. I would never even think of doing that with a house! But guess what. I'm doing it with myself. The above quote really says volumes to me. I can easily put my foot down with those who enter my house, but why do I feel powerless when it comes to what I put into my mouth and my brain? Just as poor food leaves my body empty, negative people, thoughts and emotions also take their toll. Are hobbies, past times and things that make us truly happy and relaxed the cure for that deficiency? But there's not room for everything, and eventually the decision has to be made to cut them out of your diet. What a terrifying proposition!<br />
<br />
So how does one do all this? I'm not a therapist or a dietician. I guess I didn't get this way overnight, so perhaps the healthiest way is to take my steps little by little, learning along the way, just like I did with my work. I should be as selective with food and friends as I am with tenants- limit myself to things that are of high quality because those are the things that will take care of me. I would like to find the courage to let go of my tendency to try to control, draw my line in the sand and see what walks up to it every once in a while. I would bet that if I relaxed I would notice that, despite the fact that my anxieties try to convince my logic otherwise, not many things would approach my line. Its an extremely scary notion for me, but what a fantasy! What could a little piece of assuredness like that do in other aspects of my life?<br />
<br />
Could it make me divorce Oscar Mayer? Not likely. I'm a landlady, not the Dalai Lama.<br />
<br />
Little itty bitty baby steps. Learn along the way. Long term health and happiness is the goal- that applies to work, friends, family and food. <br />
<br />
Good talk. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-83101428425684633402013-03-16T20:10:00.001-07:002013-03-16T20:10:03.743-07:00You Want Fries with that Prozac?An Indian chief is talking to his tribe about two dogs fighting in his mind; one is a white dog that is kind and courageous, and a black dog that is vengeful and angry. Both dogs are fighting to the death. A young brave, unable to wait till the end of the story, asks, "Which one will win?", and the chief replies, "The one I feed". <br />
<br />
I've not been in a very good mood lately. Frankly, I've been kind of a miserable thing to live with. Very negative, irritable, sarcastic. Smiling has become a bit of challenge as of late. My weight is creeping up. My house is messier than it should be. I would rather go shopping than do my work. To boot, my cooking sucks. When we had family over to eat about three weeks ago, I made a beautiful porcini mushroom risotto. Guess what? My heart was hardly in it, and it tasted that way. My rice was too raw. My beautiful idea and fantasy of how it should taste was ruined by my crappy attitude. Dried porcinis are pricey, too. Thank God I had some scotch there to make me feel better temporarily. I made a really nice vegetable stir fry for my grandson's birthday party last weekend. It was crisp, fresh tasting and very good when it was cooked, but I put it in the crockpot to keep it warm as the party began. It quickly turned soggy and not at all appetizing, and you know something? I really didn't care much. For 12 years, I have made dinner to satisfy the needs of the hard working hubby and the growing teenagers, but, as I have described in an earlier rumination, your head and heart have to be in it as much as your mixing spoon does. I'm not there lately. My cooking is something that, prior to my funk, I took pride in. It is something that I pretty much learned out of necessity. My parents are by no stretch cooks, so I bought cookbooks and watched a lot of Food Network to get the education that I needed to feed something nutritious to my new husband and his children while most of the people I went to high school with were still in college. Not much time to experiment and have fun. I've got a hungry crew to feed and a budget to do it with, as I'm sure most readers can relate to. When did I slip into Martyr Mode? I wasn't like this a few years ago. I was happy, energetic and outgoing, not afraid to do something that others would disapprove of. I have flamingoes in my front yard, for Christ's sake. Where's that chick? I miss her. I am still pretty brave compared to most, but when you throw 'doesn't give a damn' in there, it becomes a problem for broads like me that are quick with their sharp tongue. When my sister asks me how I am and she laughs hysterically at my answer, I feel like me again. Where have I lost my ability to see the humor in my day to day? When did stuff start getting to me? When did I start paying so much attention to the quirks of others to make me read into them and let them bother me? I'm not perfect, so why should I get impatient with others when they are not? Why do I let the actions of others affect me so when they shouldn't in the slightest bit?<br />
<br />
I am feeding the wrong dog, and it is making a total mess of things. <br />
<br />
It makes sense to me that I need to return the focus to myself, obviously the most important person in my life. When I was an EMT, they taught us to never put ourselves in danger because if we got hurt, we wouldn't be able to help others (my favorite was the lesson for a Hazardous Materials Incident Management where it was explained that we needed only two pieces of equipment- a lawn chair and a pair of binoculars). <br />
<br />
So what are the things that I enjoy doing that I need to get back to after a long grumpy winter? <br />
<br />
I wanna eat. <br />
I wanna cook. <br />
I wanna be active and walk my cute little dog and take our tortoise to play in the backyard. <br />
I wanna grow my veggies. I haven't done it for two years because we spent all of last summer packing up the house we were moving out of. <br />
<br />
Today, I started 144 seeds in the starter pots. Peppers, lettuces, collard greens, daikon radish, lots of arugula, peas, parsley and basil. And that's just in one raised bed of my new house. I have a lot more to do. I'm looking forward to growing my own food again. Two years ago I sent my husband, who I practically worship, to work with a nice salad from our garden almost everyday. My labor of love for him. I feel an enormous sense of pride when I create a meal made out of something from my own backyard. I wanna tell the world that I worked for this meal from beginning to end, dammit, and it tastes delicious, its more nutritious than anything that has pesticides or wax coating from the grocery store and it was nurtured with time, sunshine and fresh water. That's part of my personality- I take care of things, and I try hard to do it right. <br />
<br />
I am the only one who can do anything about my crappy outlook. I started exercising again about 2 weeks ago and I'm already seeing improvement. Today, I've chosen to start my garden to give me something to replenish the self worth that the cold winter has taken from me. It's time to plot and plan my apologies to my stepchildren for being crabby and condescending. Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day and I've picked a recipe for a chocolate cake made with Guinness. I've got a stash of audiobooks to go through. Leisurely of course. Making myself a good person again is not a chore, but it should be something that is enjoyed because I'm doing it for the right reasons. Sounds strangely like making sauce. Hmmm....Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-39766811903129603202013-01-20T15:34:00.000-08:002013-01-20T22:47:43.922-08:00The Zen of SauceI made pasta sauce. <br />
With crab legs. <br />
It's good. <br />
Start with The Holy Trinity. Olive oil, garlic, onion. Sweat that down with salt.<br />
Don't burn it. <br />
Add your seasonings to the mix. Don't burn it. <br />
Add your tomatoes. There are lots of kinds, pick your favorite. Don't burn them. <br />
Add the sugar. Don't burn it.<br />
Let it cook. <br />
And cook.<br />
Don't burn it.<br />
And cook.<br />
And cook. <br />
Don't burn it.<br />
Add a little water and tomato paste when needed. <br />
Don't burn it. <br />
When its close to done, add some crab legs. Let them cook in the sauce. <br />
Don't burn it.<br />
When it's done, you'll know. Use your eyes, nose and tongue. You'll need your ears too, listen for how fast its simmering. <br />
Don't burn it. <br />
<br />
I am by no means an expert at making sauce. But who can be, since everyone's sauce is different? Different proportions of different ingredients. The vegetables are all different depending on where they are growing in the world. There's nothing special about jarred sauce because every jar tastes the same at every house. My Irish/French/German sauce is different from my Korean mother in law's, whose is different from her Sicilian mother in law's from whom she learned. Less enjoyable? No. Its my individual statement. There's also the experience of the sauce. What else was going on while I was making this sauce, at home, in the world, in my head, in the heads of those who are going to be enjoying it in a few hours? In order to not burn it, you need to watch it. Smell it, look at it, touch it with the spoon, taste it. Almost constantly. I'm a busy lady, so I can't make sauce everyday. It needs to be done at the right time and in the right mindframe. Making sauce is something of a meditation. You must be aware of what is going on inside the pot and what is going into it. You also need to be in touch with those senses. You can make a fresh sauce quickly, but it won't have the depth and character of a beautiful sauce that has been cooking on the stove for hours. You have to devote the time. It is not something that can be done as a "what the hell' last minute thing. Its a devotional not to be reserved for Sunday.<br />
So if someone tells you "your sauce is so good", there's more going on there. <br />
Maybe its "I hate tomatoes, but.."<br />
Or perhaps ".... It reminds me of my grandmother's house".<br />
Or "...Ralph and I went to Rome for our anniversary, and we had sauce just like this!"<br />
"This brings back memories, some sad, some happy". <br />
Food has the power to inspire such emotion. <br />
A jar of Ragu doesn't bring back a memory because it wasn't cooked with any. The smell permeates the house and gets the attention of everyone. Its a mixture of emotions- excitement, then some reminiscing, fantasizing, longing, then comes the rumbling stomach which brings the task at hand into focus. And the pot hasn't even made it off the stove yet. No mention of the delicious pasta yet (which is a whole thing on its own. Crab sauce is served with linguini- discussion over). Let's head for the table. Let the newly activated senses take over. I start with the pasta first. Sauce looks like the right color and consistency. I know this because I've made it so many times before. Sauce is delicious and smoothe, well cooked. Activate ears- here come the compliments. How about some of the crab legs? This is a meal that should be eaten with a plastic tablecloth and dark clothes. If you have a papercut, its gonna hurt, but its so worth it. You will be up to your elbows in sauce and crabby bits. Its impossible to eat this civilly, so don't bother. Everyone else will be covered in it too, enjoying what you have focused on for the past several hours. Notice I say <i>focused</i>, not <i>labored. </i>Pour your glass of wine. You're gonna get sauce all over the glass. Go ahead, lick it off the stem. <i> </i><br />
Enjoy it.<br />
Savor it.<br />
Clean up your dish with some fresh bread.<br />
All of your ingredients should be married into one perfectly balanced union. Your cooking experience, your feelings, thoughts and emotions can be tasted. If you don't accept sauce making as a time to ruminate and find your kitchen zen, you can taste it. Enjoy the heaviness off of your shoulders and onto your belly, just for a little while.<br />
<br />
Now try to keep that feeling when you're scrubbing your nails and the tablecloth later. Like I said, its worth it. <br />
<i><br />
</i>Bon apetit, and what the hell, namaste, too. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdCH3xs1UFHDyPklp7yfND4q9tY1YHMbOJbnGcHvoDmisKedRwnS3zmVe5yVhOrGrkWNnxv2sFo8psGwOMH3fB476E2L22LweS1SKo6Bmp9c9FEcl2w5z-O-dB5GYQJ97P-eenzpzWyvo/s640/blogger-image--1101773168.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdCH3xs1UFHDyPklp7yfND4q9tY1YHMbOJbnGcHvoDmisKedRwnS3zmVe5yVhOrGrkWNnxv2sFo8psGwOMH3fB476E2L22LweS1SKo6Bmp9c9FEcl2w5z-O-dB5GYQJ97P-eenzpzWyvo/s640/blogger-image--1101773168.jpg" /></a></div>Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-60422598171514416422013-01-06T19:19:00.001-08:002013-01-24T09:21:10.924-08:00I Eat, Therefore I Am"<i>Cogito ergo sum</i>", Latin for "<i>I think, therefore I am</i>", always pops into the minds of those in the midst of metaphysical introspection. The ponderings of Descartes speak very much to the "keep it simple, stupid" doctrine that we try to emulate as a New Year's Resolution, but then fail miserably as soon as we hit the first traffic jam of the year. His conclusion was that if you are even considering your existence as a cognizant being, then you must be as such. Piece of cake. So let's give thought to a different one today - "<i>Comedam ergo sum</i>". "<i>I eat, therefore I am</i>". Yeah, I like this one better for today. Obviously there is the physical act of ingesting food in order to provide nutrients to your body for its survival. Not that I expect you to remember back that far, but that was the original reason for food. Fortunately, we now live in a society where we don't have to worry about where the next meal is coming from. An abused privilege in overweight America? Maybe we'll talk about national obesity statistics another day. For now, I've got a point to make. <br />
<br />
Here's the question of the day- How much conscious thought goes into what you choose for breakfast? <br />
What goes through your mind to help you make your decision? <br />
Your heritage?<br />
Your calorie conscience? <br />
Your refrigerator leftover inventory?<br />
Hormones?<br />
<br />
Congratulations, you've made a choice. Do you feel good about your choice? <br />
Do you eat every little bite of scrambled egg because it was drilled into you that, even though you're not particularly enjoying it, you need to clean your plate or be punished? <br />
Does your packet of oatmeal bring memories of Dad making you breakfast when you had a snow delay? <br />
Perhaps its easy and tastes good and anything beyond that makes your head hurt. <br />
<br />
Be honest with yourself- were you even hungry this morning, or did you just eat because you felt like it was the right thing to do?<br />
"Dr. Oz says I have to eat breakfast".<br />
"I have to take my pills with food". <br />
"I'm really not hungry, but I need to mindlessly cram something in because the morning meeting might go long and I'll miss my lunch break!"<br />
"The stress of making lunches and getting the kids dressed and fed and out the door is unbearable! Give me something sweet!".<br />
<br />
Private Conversation:<br />
Me: Oh, darling handsome husband of mine (I really do say that), why do you eat rice everyday for breakfast? <br />
Hub: Because I like it. <br />
Me: That's it? Just because you like it? <br />
Hub: Yeah. But its not just the rice. The rice is just the vehicle for other ingredients. You can add anything to it, and make something interesting everyday. That's why I never get bored with it. <br />
<br />
Eat THAT, Descartes. <br />
<br />
Our physical bodies are our vehicle through life. Through the ages, every "human vehicle" has had the shared experiences- birth, bearing children, hunting for food, death, in the "keep it simple, stupid" mindset. I suppose it's every individual's mindset that steers the vehicle. Some do it because Grandma told them to. Or maybe God. Time-honored tradition. Special memories. <br />
<br />
And that's kind of the whole point here. Who's driving, where are we going, and why are we going there? Just like the person, the journey is individual, totally unique, hopefully fun on the most-part, but sometimes lonely and scary. The fuel that goes into the car is different for everyone. What distance are you willing to go and how hard are you willing to work to get your fuel? How far do you expect that fuel to take you? Will the fuel I chose for breakfast this morning and every morning for the rest of my life get me to my destination?<br />
<br />
I'll chew on that. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8092608039327552111.post-66211157062487582912013-01-01T14:54:00.000-08:002013-01-01T14:54:33.969-08:00My Food Identity<span style="color: #4c1130;">As the spiritual leader Emmet Fox once said, "It is the food which you furnish to your mind that determines the character of your life".</span><div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;">No wonder I am so %!&@? up.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #4c1130;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;">Spin the globe and pick a spot. Every culture has holidays, traditions, and celebrations with a focus on the "breaking of bread" with kith and kin. Right from the get-go, the serpent lead Adam and Eve into temptation with an apple, screwing us all for eternity. Its noted in the Book of Revelation that the body and blood of Christ is emphasized in a heavenly feast. Buddhists monks are vegetarians who they won't take the life of an animal, but of course, if they are offered meat with their daily alms, they will not decline it. Thanksgiving turkeys, pork on New Years, fish on Christmas Eve, some religion-based, some superstition, all cultural, all revolving around the sharing of food and drink. <span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">Universally, everyone needs it, everyone craves it, and everyone thinks everyone else's sucks next to Mama's.</span><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"> Major differences in regional cuisine come down to what is fresh and local (not a </span><span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">lot of whale blubber in Cuban cuisine) and preparation methods available (the indiginous people of cold northern Japan hang fish, their main staple, outside for weeks to dry it). Northern</span> Italians eat potatoes, southern Italians eat more citrus and olives. Thanks to cable TV, you can now have a Norwegian Christmas feast in central Texas, if that's what floats your boat. Diverse foods are more available than ever, and some will happily experiment with different tastes and exciting cooking methods, trying recipes on YouTube cooking shows. Others are traditionalists who have fond memories of Nana spending hours in the kitchen making her generations-old recipe from scratch (my father in law has a definite opinion of Giada and her fresh look on Italian cuisine). </span></div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;">So what do I mean when I say "Food Identity"? Obviously its different for everyone because of the number of factors involved. My mother grew up on squirrel pot pie in her very small farm family. If you tried to introduce squirrel pot pie to my husband's huge Sunday family dinners in the Bronx, well, Central Park just might have enough to go around. And pasta con sardi doesn't go well with Granddaddy's Schmidts Beer. The life I live today as a mid 30's rural girl married to a middle aged New Yorker is much different than how I grew up. I get as giddy over a bologna and cheese sandwich with mayo as I do rare tuna with roe at Morimoto. "What do you want for breakfast?" should not be a complicated question, but yet, I find myself unable to answer that question on an almost daily basis. There are times when I relish a trip to a new restaurant. Sometimes, I dread it, perfectly happy to sit home with Slim Jims and Weather Channel because of resentment, negative body image, or laziness. In 13 years, my parents and my in laws have not shared a meal other than an annual holiday buffet equipped with frozen hors d'oeurve and oven brined turkey (my dad doesn't like it, but he's overruled on this one). </span></div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;">How did I get to this strange place? </span></div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;">How many other people are here? </span></div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;">My food preferences have changed as I've grown up. What else?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;">This isn't so much an analysis of food as it is the people (namely me) who eat it. To what extent do the food choices our parents make for us as babies shape our personalities? Some people maintain those tastes and never deviate from what they know as tradition while others associate those childhood meals with pain, suffering and poverty, vowing never to subject their children to such hardship. Yet others yearn for culinary adventure a la Andrew Zimmern. Can we identify the people in these categories from a distance, I wonder?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;">If nothing else, dear reader, you and I have something in common- we're people and we're hungry. The world has quite an extensive menu. About once a week or so we'll take a peep and see what's cooking, deeply breathe in the aromas and try to separate this dish ingredient by ingredient. Some days, I will want to eat alone, others, I will need a comforting hand to hold under the table. Like a meal, life has its courses, and I'm ready to learn to savor it all. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: -webkit-left;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;">Bon appetit!</span></div>
Erin Geracihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01744411516019542430noreply@blogger.com0