Waste Not

Each October I wrestle with the same question, do I carve a pumpkin, or not? The little farmer living in my head always reminds me that food is meant to be eaten, but I get such a kick out of the jack-o’-lanterns I encounter that I am compelled to carve one anyway. Thankfully, the little farmer in my head is easily bribed with roasted pumpkin seeds.

I Think He Likes It

The Furrball was recently diagnosed with feline chronic renal failure (feline CRF). He was in pretty bad shape and we thought we might lose him within a matter of weeks. At the direction of our vet, the lovely Dr. Zastrow, we began giving him fluid injections and a daily drug regimen to ease the burden on his damaged kidneys. We also had to replace his beloved kibble.

To our delight, The Furrball made a remarkable recovery, surprising even the vet. But a week or so ago, he stopped eating all his food. We were still able to coax it down him, rather Flip was able to entice The Furrball to clean his plate. I just don't have the patience for such cajoling. Evidently, lack of appetite goes hand-in-hand with feline CRF, but, still, it's disconcerting.

Yesterday evening at The Furrball's monthly check in, Dr. Zastrow recommended another dietary change. I was a little skeptical. Everything I'd read stated that the kidney diet we'd been feeding him was the best, but he wasn't eating it on his own.

When we got home we put down two tablespoons of the new kibble. It's in nugget form. It's crunchy and should require pulverization by tooth prior to ingestion. The Furrball inhaled it. In the following 18 hours The Furrball has happily inhaled a half cup of the new kibble and powered through a quarter can of the new wet food. Yes, I think it's safe to say he likes it.

Thanksgiving

My friend, S—, called the other day to thank me for the Thanksgiving invitation I’d extended to her and her husband, M—, in 2002. She’d just thought of it, and picked up the phone.

That year eleven of us gathered around my table—housemates, friends, spouses, some of us complete strangers to each other—graduate school our primary connection.

Everyone contributed some special-to-them dish to our meal. Of course there were turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy. There were roasted sweet potatoes and apples with a maple butter glaze and someone even opened a can of Ocean Spray cranberry sauce.

And pie. Oh yes, we had lots of pie.

M— and S— brought a double batch of M—’s mom’s famous biscuits, and I think they, like the rest of us, enjoyed sharing part of their own Thanksgiving tradition with their new acquaintances on the western edge of the continent. I loved seeing them at table in my home, smiling, laughing, enjoying everyone’s company, S— in her gorgeous red dress, M— in his natty suit and tie. It was a delightful afternoon and evening.

And S— just called to remind me of the occasion and to say thank you, again, for my invitation to a Thanksgiving celebration way back in 2002, for the invitation to celebrate a traditionally familial holiday in the company of people she didn’t really know, and had no idea she’d come to love. There were tears on both ends of the line.

S— is one of my dearest friends. I cannot imagine my life in the west without her gracious presence, her calm wisdom, her delight in fun and the funny, and her inclination toward gratitude. I am grateful for her, for her role in my story. And I love that she took a moment within her busy day to remind me of a shared and beloved celebration and to ask, “So, how about Thanksgiving at our place this year?”

Sweet Tooth

So, what does one make for dessert when it’s 7:30 p.m. on a crisp, clear October evening and there is a permanent moratorium on anything containing dairy, coconut, or nuts? If I could have waited, apple pie would have been perfect, but I couldn't. My sweet tooth was in control.

So, I went leafing through my recipe box. First up were the cards for chocolate chip cookies and brownies. They're the quick and easy dairy- and nut-free standbys in our house and, frankly, I'm bored with them. It was too cold to even consider sorbet. Tapioca pudding made with coconut milk is a good go-to when the sweet tooth acts up, but...it's gummy. Oatmeal cake would have been absolutely perfect, but for Flip's twin, dessert evils: nuts and coconut. Baked apples are another perfect fall dessert but the thought of wrapping each apple in its own pie crust blanket wasn't getting me anywhere near the instant sweet gratification I was seeking.

And then I found it—Pumpkin Dessert—the quintessential Midwestern fall potluck staple composed of a cake mix, a can of pumpkin pie mix, and a few other additives. I didn't have the exact ingredients but anytime chocolate can be added to a dessert that doesn't already contain it, I assume I'm improving the recipe. So, maybe it was a little unconventional, but it served its purpose—at 8:30 p.m. I was happily satisfying my pesky sweet tooth.

Fine Distinctions

Once, Flip and I were normal cat owners, if inviting a member of another species to live in the home in which one eats and sleeps can be placed in the "normal" category. The Furrball had all the yarnballs he could ever hope to hunt, even a bit of 'nip here and there. There were crunchy treats and soft treats, salmon-flavored and chicken. He slept in any number of locations: the couch, the foot of the bed, my pillow. All perfectly normal.

We might have just over-stepped the bounds, though. The Furrball got a new bed, and I'm still using our twenty-year-old towels.

Leaping

My mother made many of my clothes when I was a child. She once told me that if there was any hope of me wearing them in the proper season, she had to make them and place them in my dresser about 6 months early. Evidently, I needed advance notice.

I still do.

In 2005, I started reading Monkfish Abbey, a blog by Rachelle Mee-Chapman (she now posts at Magpie Girl) and I've been hooked ever since, but never considered blogging as viable possibility for my own self-expression.

Until now.

Something has shifted in the last few weeks. Maybe it's the uncommon good fortune of sunny, dry fall days. (We don't get many of those here in the Pacific Northwest.) Maybe fear isn't as scary as it once was. Maybe I'm owning a measure of confidence that, though always mine, was lost. Whatever it is, I know this:

I'm leaping into the unknown, and it's a grace.

Maybe in celebration I'll wear that shirt I bought at Goodwill a few months back...after I cut the tag off.