Mother-in-Law's Pot Roast, Also Her Dog

Monday afternoon after I took Erika to the MARTA station to go back to California, I stopped and bought a roast. Matt's mom Betty made this roast in my crock pot one time, and I came here to tell you about it.

It has magic powers, e.g., the power to make my child eat onions and the power to make my husband leave the office early.

You need:

a chuck roast, I got a 3lb one
a large onion or two smaller ones
sliced mushrooms
red wine
packet of powdered blue cheese dressing mix
a stick of butter

Cut up the onion into chunks, like little wedges, and put them with the roast into the crock pot. Sprinkle the packet of blue cheese dressing mix onto the meat and onions. Unwrap an entire stick of butter. I mean it, just do it. Unwrap the butter and set it on top of the meat. Put the lid on and turn on the crock pot. I did "high" for six hours. After a couple of hours, when things have settled in a bit, open the lid really quick and pour in about half a cup of red wine. You don't need any other liquid. Go amuse yourself for another couple of hours. Then open the lid one more time and dump in the mushrooms. When the time has elapsed, the roast should be nice and tender and the broth--man--it'll make you want to hit your granny. As the old-timers say.

I served this with baked sweet potatoes. Normally I am all in favor of putting the potatoes or carrots into the crock pot and crocking it with the rest, but you don't want to put in stuff that will soak up too much liquid, Betty says.

Buddy the dog.

Betty came to my house yesterday to fly out of ATL on a trip, and she left her springer spaniel here to stay with us for a week or so. I had told her it was way too long to board him at the kennel, as he is a sensitive soul and it would be too much for him.

It's possible that I am projecting some of my own inner life onto this dog.

So there are the two dogs here. As Matt has remarked, having Buddy around is like having a dog, which is not quite how I'd characterize Percy the Beagle, Moody Daughter of Time. Percy is in a slow boil that Buddy is here. And Buddy is upset that Betty is gone. He's droopy and he definitely has looked around the house for her.

Today he tried to get in my van. He didn't even know where it was going. Just away from here.

So there are a lot of emotional creatures in this house tonight. We get our feelings hurt, then we eat some chow, then we watch a ball roll and find a soft place to lie down. Then we feel better.

That's the scene by me. xo

Of Unusual Size

My sister-in-law Kate, she of the forty acres in the country and the haunted church, posted this picture on facebook this morning. "This giant groundhog keeps trying to get into my house," she said. Adding, lest we thought she was kidding, "I'm not even kidding." She said he had tried the patio door, the garage, and the front door, and was just then staring at her from the backyard.

This led Amy to comment/wail, "Why are rodents attacking our family??"

WHY INDEED.

And speaking of which. The professional mouseketeers are coming tomorrow morning to begin mitigating our roof rat situation. 

When last we checked in on the delicate marital dance--the dance that ensues when a man and woman love each other very much and they buy a house together that some rats love to nest in--I had turned the decision-making process over to Matt and had given him the contact info for Tim the critter guy. I figured that he would talk to the guy and either negotiate some reduced level of service or just pick his brain or I didn't know what.

I had turned this issue over to Matt in a spirit of wifely submission. And here's what I've learned about wifely submission: For wifely submission to work, like, as a maneuver, it can't be a maneuver, it has to really be the authentic thing. I was all, "I surrender this issue to your judgment and if you want to make a hobby out of catching rats in your spare time, I will never issue the first peep of second-guessing you because we are one flesh and I don't think you are wrong and I don't even want to be right."

Or I didn't say all those words, but it was like, the gist.

What happened was that Matt decided he didn't even have the time and braincycles to spend on talking to the guy. Which was a good proof-of-concept of the truth that if he didn't have time to talk about some rats, he didn't have time to stalk, bait, trap, and dispose of rats.

And that is how that is turning out.

So tomorrow the professionals will be here. I will have smelling salts nearby in case I have to actually lay eyes on a rat.

If that groundhog had been laying siege to my house, I would have totally let him in and tried to figure out what he might like to eat. Then I would have made him a bed in a laundry basket and later, just maybe, put him in a bonnet. You?

My Neighbor's Opossum

See this nice old lady? That is Miss Terry. She is holding Louise. In case you're too polite to mention it, yes, Louise is an opossum.  She is Miss Terry's pet.

Miss Terry would love to talk to you about that possum.

I snapped this picture today when Miss Terry sidled up to my car window to chat.  I was bringing Normal Neighbor home from chemotherapy, and Miss T lives right across the street from her.  She was standing at the end of her driveway like someone who wanted very badly to be chatted with, so I obliged.  I kept the engine running because otherwise I would still be there, God love her.

This is actually the second possum that Miss Terry has kept as a pet.  This story is now engraved in the book of neighborhood lore: Some children were playing in the creek down behind Miss Terry's house and found a little half-drowned baby possum. They brought it to her and she nursed it and raised it, in the process learning quite a bit about the thriving subculture of people who keep possums as pets. Or she tells me it's a thriving subculture. I have yet to perform the first google search.

The first possum and Miss Terry shared several happy years together, until one day, it got out of the house and went missing.  For more information, call 1-800-COYOTE.

We moved into the neighborhood in the dark days following First Possum's disappearance.  These days, in neighborhood chronicles, this is referred to as the Interpossum Era.  I heard all about First Possum from Miss Terry herself, when she cornered me at a cocktail party at my next-door neighbor's house. She was so distraught when telling about losing that possum, we both cried.

But word spread throughout the land that Miss Terry loved having that opossum and would be thrilled to get another one.  You can't exactly buy them at Petsmart though, that was the problem. At length, somehow, another baby possum turned up. I think someone rescued it from a roadkill situation. (A mother possum on the side of the road may have babies in her pouch; the possum lovers always stop to check.)

So Louise came into Miss Terry's life and neither one of them could be happier. Or Miss Terry couldn't be happier, I am not that sure about Louise.  Seems like a pretty nice life.  Miss T says that they are trainable, about like a cat, and make very agreeable house companions. Her fur is very soft, and if you can get over the long, long, ratlike tail, she is cute.  Her little nose is quite mobile and her ears remind me of bats' wings.

Laura told me that she went to Miss Terry's house and fed grapes to Louise while Louise climbed all over her. I only have to suppress the tiniest of shudders when thinking of that.

It is a measure of the crazy stuff that goes on in this neighborhood that I have never blogged about Miss Terry.  You can see why I need this forum for working through these things.

Shortly after I snapped this photo, Miss Terry convinced me to open my car door and let a Basset hound climb in.  The dog was roaming around loose and Miss T wanted to take Louise for a walk. I wish I were making this up.  I wanted to tell her that I would rather hang around and watch the Basset hound eat the possum.  But instead I collected the dog and drove it to its house, the home of the Mystery People. Figures.

Dog's name is Bess.

I hope you've enjoyed this slice of life in my 'hood.

A Less Often Featured Family Member

Did y'all know that I have a dog? Her name is Percy. There she is, in one of her usual poses. She sits like a person, or maybe like Opus from "Bloom County." I see a certain resemblance.

Anyway, she is not the smartest or best-smelling dog in the world, but we are fond of her.

And here is Laura. She is not a less-often featured family member, but I had this nice picture of her from last weekend. I think I can see what she'll look like when she's grown up.

We are embarking on a lazy weekend. Get this: this is only the second weekend in the last nine weeks (I counted) that we've been home. It's been non-stop running around. It was all fun stuff but I am beat. Leisure is so exhausting, gah!

Laura had a friend sleep over last night. We watched Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Have you seen this? I definitely recommend it for a family movie night. It is very entertaining and even hilarious at moments. Even Hank was transfixed.

At this age, Laura and her friends are so low-maintenance that I feel like a slacker. They ate pizza, watched the movie, and then went upstairs to engage in a highly-important giggle/chat/performance art hybrid. I found them asleep at midnight and switched off the light. This morning they went out for a walk, then came back and gave me a full report on three garage sales going on around the corner.

I love girls.

Obviously I don't have much to say. Just this: have a good Saturday, I hope it is chillaxing.

The Dog Picked Today

To pee on the dining room rug. A lot. Tonight my friend Erika, my pedicure pal and partner in numerous capers, arrives from California with her husband and baby. So I am tidying and swishing things up. And I got back from taking the kids out to breakfast to find a big puddle of dogwhiz in my entryway. She went on the wood floor in the entryway and it spread to the dining room rug.

Matt had helpfully marked the spot with a pile of paper towels. (Let us not dwell on the question of why he didn't clean up the pee. I'm going to assume that at the precise moment he noticed the dog's mess, an angel straight from heaven was ringing the doorbell with a telegram from Jesus. Or, maybe he spied a 1930's silent film baby crawling along the ledge of a half-built skyscraper, wearing an adorable bonnet and an impish expression, oblivious to its immediate peril. Whatever, I'm sure he meant to return to the dog pee, so I will harbor no grudge.)

Where was I? So, questions:

1) You know what happens to a jute rug when you get it wet?

It puckers. And even after it dries, it will never quite be flat and smooth again.

2) Do you know what that means for cleaning such a rug?

It means you can't clean it with water.

3) So why did I put the one rug in the house that can't be cleaned in the dining room of all places, where spills and such are inevitable?

I don't know. If you figure that one out, tell me.

We've been in this house with that rug for four years. Maybe that's how long a jute rug lasts? But I don't know if I can find another one I like that much--it's an adorable striped one from Pottery Barn. But don't be all picturing a striped rug just because I said it's striped. It's a subtle stripe. You got that? SUBTLE.

So what I did do was to spray a bunch of that enzymatic pet mess cleaner on the affected areas and rotate the rug 180 degrees so that the stain is hidden in the corner. What would you have done?

What have y'all got going on? Tomorrow we'll go up to the North Carolina with our buds for some more tubing and mountain activities. Then back to ATL, then I'll drive the kids to Florida before I head to BlogHer in NYC. This all happens in the next week somehow. I'm not sure how but it will be a mysterious process.

Nature Does Not Hurry, That's For Sure

This morning I had just let the dog out, and while I was serving Hank his breakfast, Percy started barking in the backyard. I would say "barking like crazy," except that anyone who knows this dog or beagles as a breed is aware that "barking like crazy" is standard beagle operating procedure. This barking went up to eleven. Like, from how it sounded, I thought she was barking at the second coming of Jesus. Or maybe at a shark riding on an elephant's back.

So yelling rude things out the door didn't get her to be quiet, but it got Hank to ask, "Mama, did you say 'stupid dumb?'" Whoops. So I put on my sandals and went out to investigate. Bark bark bark. I could see nothing. Percy glanced at me over her shoulder like, "I am SO glad you're here." Bark bark. I stared and stared into the woods, looking for a deer, coyote, rabbit, Sasquatch, anything. Nothing. The hair stood up on Percy's back, and she actually inched sideways and stood behind a tree, stretching her neck around to howl, howl so loud it broke the world.

Finally, following her gaze, I saw the horror.



Percy looked disgusted with me when I leaned down and picked up the turtle. I carried it up the hill and put it down close to the back porch, then I called for Hank to come see it. The dog was shut up on the porch by the baby gate, while Hank and I sat down about six feet away on the porch steps to look at the turtle. It had pulled its head and legs into its shell, but I figured that if we waited a minute he would come out again. So we waited.

And waited. The turtle did nothing. I wondered if it was completely shellshocked from the barking and the being picked up. I don't know how sensitive turtles are to trauma. So we sat. I had told Hank it was a Box Turtle, so he kept saying "Open your lid! Open your lid!" We waited, enjoying the breeze. The turtle sat, possibly enjoying the breeze. Percy scratched and whimpered softly, right on the other side of the baby gate.

A robin fussed at us from the dogwood tree, and I remembered that there is a robin's nest in the big camelia bush right by our porch. I had noticed it a couple of days ago. So by putting the turtle down and settling on the steps, we had startled the mother bird off of her nest. I said, "I'm sorry, as soon as this turtle comes out of his shell and walks for Hank, we'll be out of your way." She jumped down and started pacing in the mulch. I would have picked up the turtle and moved us all somewhere else, but I didn't want to restart the turtle clock.

The earth turned, Percy fretted, we sat. Hank said he was thirsty. I stepped over the baby gate and got some juice for him and a cup of coffee for myself. The bottom part of the turtle's shell looked like it had opened a millimeter, but it may have been a shadow. Hank mused, "Where is that turtle's mama?" I said, "Well, maybe that is the mama." He got a look on his face like, "Mom, in order for me to find that turtle relatable, it needs to be the baby, not the mama. Nothing worthy of narrating happens to mamas." So I said, "Or maybe he's on his way home to his mama." Interest renewed.

Turtle status: unchanged. I started to feel like we were upsetting an entire backyard ecosystem. Distressed mother robin, schizo-paranoid beagle, paralyzed/stubborn/snoozing turtle, inadequately SPF'd Hank, and me, in pajamas and pink snakeskin Birkenstocks. It was a majestic natural tableau. Remember that "Planet Earth" series? It was kind of like a scene from that. But with more tension. Something had to give. Hank broke the standoff by saying he needed to use the potty. I thought, "Okay, it's like in a restaurant. While you're in the bathroom, your food arrives. If we go inside, this turtle will just burst into activity."

And he did, sorta. When we came back out, he'd poked his head out that little bit, and we were able to go up to him and look at him, and I took his picture. Then the mother robin fluttered up from her nest again. She was like, "Really? You're back. Really. That's great." So I picked up the turtle and turned him over. Hank touched his shell on both sides, and even touched his little claws that were peeking out. Then I moved the turtle back to where I'd found him, because maybe he was going somewhere in particular.

Then I picked a tick off of Hank's shin, and then we went back inside and left everyone in peace.

Here ends the day's field study notes from our house. Are y'all outside playing? Have a good weekend, whatever you get up to!

Daughter-Dog Exchange Program

You know how your hands are constantly reaching towards your children, to touch, feel, and squeeze them? Those kids need frequent tweaking, adjusting, and patting. It's fun to just love on 'em, as we say in the South. I gather that some people feel that way about dogs too. Like they, the dog lovers, delight in petting and scratching and showing affection to their animals. They just enjoy touching them. I think that is beautiful and healthy, but I am not that person.

This morning, Matt's mom Betty took Laura off on a spring break trip to Boston and Providence. In Laura's place, she left her Springer Spaniel, Buddy, to stay with us until they get back. He is a lot younger than our dog. Our beagle, Percy (who is a girl--my brother named her after a Florida Gators wide receiver) is sort of middle-aged, very low-maintenance, and possibly suffering from low self-esteem issues. I think if she could characterize her relationship with us, it might be:

Hey, I know that we've all made choices that have led us to this point, and maybe it's not exactly how we pictured our lives turning out, you know? Why don't we just live together as roommates? I don't need much. Just keep it kinda mellow, notice me sometimes, and I'll need to be let out to bark at the rabbit scourge. Thanks and see ya around.

Buddy the Springer Spaniel is a big boy with a broad back, a sort of Prince Valiant hairdo, and a freckled, earnest face. I think if he could talk to me, it would be more like:

Oh, HEY, what up? Wait, YOU like to sit on the couch? I love to sit on the couch! AND you like popcorn? That's like my favorite thing! OMG, so funny, we are like twins!! Awesome, we should do this more. Say, do you, like, need your feet right now, 'cause I'm gonna put my butt on 'em.

Matt remarked that having Buddy with us is like having a dog. I'm not sure I would say the same for Percy the Beagle, Daughter of Time. So it will be interesting. This morning Betty and Laura left at 6:30 to get to the airport, and Buddy made a mournful circuit of the house, looking for his mistress, before coming to my bedside, putting his face right next to mine, and whining in the pre-dawn gloom. I patted him and petted him, but clearly I wasn't doing something right. So he walked down the hall, shouldered Hank's door open, and looked for Betty in there, whining all the time. Hank was only too happy to wake up and talk to him. Grumble. So we were all up early, Hank and me and a lot of dogs.

So maybe it's the sleep deprivation, but it was very hard to not title this post "Doggy Styles." Restraint, people. That's what I have. Restraint and decorum out the whazoo.

Have a lovely Thursday.