“But What If I Never See Pomegranate Syrup Again?”
I had a tough weekend. You know, one of those dealing with emotions kind. Exhausting.
I’ve been chasing moths in our pantry for weeks now, and AdventureMan has volunteered to clean out the pantry totally and get to the root of the situation. I am so grateful. He was soon so sorry he volunteered. It’s a mammoth job. I know, I’ve done it before to get rid of our last infestation.
Even that word is a trigger for me. We have a moth infestation translates to I AM A BAD HOUSEKEEPER. I hear my Mother’s judgement. She raised me better. I do the best I can, but . . . I have an INFESTATION. I feel like a failure.
So I listen to my husband huffing and puffing and even cursing now and then, and I don’t feel appreciation as much as I feel guilt.
It gets worse. He wants to have “a talk.” Just the words make my heart pound. But the truth is, he is very kind. He doesn’t blame me for this at all; he just wants to find where these beasties are coming from. We wash every crevice (there are cocoons), inspect every package, put all grains and open-package wares in glass or hard plastic containers, and we crush every sign of the beasties. Yet still they appear.
AnventureMan snuggles up and says “we are buying too much food. We have a pantry full of food, just for the two of us. We eat out often, and cook less. We waste food; we throw out bread that molds, vegetables that shrink, and foods that have expired. We need to buy less food.”
I agree. I know he is right.
“I know it is hard for you to break decades of behavior,” he says, “but we have changed our habits and now we have to change our shopping.”
I agree. I know he is right.
Living on a frugal island in Alaska, then living overseas where we couldn’t get many of the goods Americans take for granted, I lived by two rules:
- If you see it, buy it. You may never see it again. This was true in Alaska, Germany, Tunisia, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and Qatar. During COVID it was briefly true in the United States, as the supply chain went off the wheel, and toilet paper was absent from the shelves as people bought it up like treasure.
- If you need it, buy a back-up. This explains why I have excessive amounts of peanut butter, mustard, relish, tuna fish, dish detergent and beans. It’s no longer a question of when the boat will come in, it’s also a question of if a hurricane strikes and we are on our own for days, or weeks, or months.
I agree with AdventureMan. I need to buy less; we need to waste less.
Today, with his felafel salad, he started to grab the pomegranate syrup from the pantry and I said “Stop! We have one open in the refrigerator!” I could see it was getting low, and mentally I was thinking “put that on the list, we don’t want to run out of pomegranate syrup.”
And then my rational brain kicked in. How often do I really use pomegranate syrup? For Muhammara, which I make maybe once every three months. For Fesenjan, which I have made once, ever. And today AdventureMan wanted some for his salad. Our bottle in the refrigerator could last a year or more.
And my lizard brain screamed “But what if you never see pomegranate syrup again?”
Two Red Queens Fighting First Amendment
Donald Trump and Pete Hegseth have both limited press coverage, Trump in the White House and Hegseth in the Pentagon. The Press is only allowed to present the news as seen by these two Red Queens who shout “Off With Their Heads!” the minute their feelings are hurt. The want “Truth” to be what they say it is. Our Press knows better.
This is a dangerous challenge to the rights of the American people to know what is going in in their government. Things like knowing what is going on with a war they never approved. How their tax monies are being spent. How their elections will be conducted.
I love that political cartoonists are weighing in, and that their depictions are brutal. The Red Queens are brutalizing our First Amendment rights, trying to determine that “TRUTH is what we say it is.” Do you believe them?
I am praying our courts will serve the Red Queens with a brutal comeuppance.
(For my foreign readers, Red Queens refers to an arbitrary, lunatic monarch in Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland.)
“Mirror, Mirror on the Wall… “
I have a mirror that makes me laugh. It also makes me happy.
I have a daughter-in-love I adore, who lived in this house before I did, and every time I came to visit, or babysit, if I saw myself in the hall mirror, I was surprised, I looked so thin!
Now I live in the house, and when we were moving in, I asked her where she had found her mirror because I wanted one like it. She told me it was from Walmart.
I found one just like it, and hung it in exactly the same spot, where I could see myself as I come down to hall.
I laugh because I know that because it is a cheap mirror, it is flawed, and that the flaw is to make me look taller, and thinner, than I am. I know this.
And I laugh again because I don’t care! I love the daily surprise of looking thin!
(As for the rest of it – Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” I don’t even ask. I’ll concede that to my much younger, prettier daughter-in-law.) 😊
September 11; A Day of Infamy
I was in Seattle for a wedding, staying with my sister. My nephew and I were up early, and he called to me, “Come see something! This is so weird. A plane just flew into the World Trade Center!”
I didn’t believe him, but I went to his room across the hall to see. As we watched, the second plane flew into the second tower.
“That wasn’t an accident,” I said. “It’s not that easy to fly straight into a building.”
But mostly, I was thinking “Will I ever see my husband again?”
We were living in Germany. The phone lines were blocked. I couldn’t hear his voice.
My sister got a call, and she left for work. My nephew left for work. I had a coffee date with one of my former professors; she never showed up. She called me later to say she was stuck in the ferry line; the ferries weren’t operating, and neither was her phone until now.
So I hit the quilt shop. I knew I would spend the rest of the day rivited to the television screen, trying to learn what had just happened. We had seen it, we kept seeing it, over and over, but none of us could understand what we were seeing.
The New Yorker cover, above, captures it perfectly – we were all in the dark.
I was scared, and I felt angry. I wanted to DO something. I wanted to have something positive to come out of this horror. I designed a quilt. I cut out the pieces. I hand stitched all the pieces. It got me through.
Maybe late that night, AdventureMan was able to call me. We still didn’t know exactly what was going on or if the planes would ever fly again. I held my breath in the coming days, as my flight reservation day approached.
I was on one of the first planes out. I remember the pilot coming on as we were departing, and telling us to introduce ourselves to each other, to be neighbors on our flight, that we would help one another if anything went wrong. It was greatly moving, unexpectedly emotional.
September 11 is one of those days when everyone knows where he or she was when the planes hit. Everyone has a story. On our first safari to Botswana, we met a New Yorker who had been working in downtown New York and who had to walk miles to get home and somehow ended up barefoot. She said the walk was the best part, being alive was the best part, and that the streets, on that day of horror, were filled with people who were kind and helpful to one another.
The End of an Era
“Mr. Adventureman, the papers you have ordered have come!” the manager of the Sultan Center would say, exultantly, to my clueless husband.
“I ordered papers?” he might croak.
“Sir! It is the coated paper for you to use in the microwave!”
“Aha! ” AdventureMan thinks, “my wife has ordered this.”
“Thank you so much!” he responds brightly to the store manager. “We will pick it up shortly!”
Raised with Alaskan frugality, storing for the future, letting nothing go to waste, never knowing when we will ever see (fill in the blank) again, I store my treasures, using them sparingly. Today, I smile ruefully as I use the last of the last roll of waxed paper from Kuwait.
I think microwave technology has improved. I don’t seem to use waxed paper to defend against food explosions as I once did. Or maybe I’ve just gotten smarter?
I’m not buying waxed paper – or a lot of things – the way I once did. I’ve never lived in one place for this long – a place where, if something runs out, I can get a replacement within an hour, or at worst, a couple days. It’s not like when taco chips completely disappeared from every restaurant in Doha for a month, or cream sold out in Tunis as the big Eid approached. The closest we’ve come to a shortage is during COVID, when people hoarded toilet paper for a short time. The lasting result is that my friends discovered the blessing of bidets.
Last month, I actually came close to running out of dish detergent. I have to laugh at myself; in my own funny way, I’m making progress.
“The Cruelty is the Point”
I was singing to the choir, complaining to my old high school friend about the tactics and strategies employed by the Trump administration, against immigrants, against the press, and against any citizen disagreeing with this administration’s viewpoint. “It all seems so intentional, so cruel,” I said.
“The cruelty is the point,” he responded. It was short, pithy, but that was weeks ago and I continue to ponder the phrase. I wondered why it sounds familiar – my friend used quote marks – so this morning, I googled it and got this very thorough AI response:
“The cruelty is the point” is a political phrase coined by The Atlantic staff writer Adam Serwer in a prominent 2018 essay. [1, 2]
Origin and Meaning
- Coinage: Adam Serwer used the phrase in his October 2018 essay, “The Cruelty Is the Point”. [1, 2, 3]
- Core Argument: Serwer argued that the policies and public behavior of the Trump administration and its supporters were not accidentally harsh or crude, but intentionally designed to cause pain to marginalized groups. [1, 2]
- The Bond: He wrote that inflicting this pain creates a powerful sense of unity, pride, and shared identity among political supporters, binding them together through common opposition to outsiders, immigrants, and minority groups. [1]
Book Adaptation
- Publication: Serwer expanded his essays into a book titled The Cruelty Is the Point: The Past, Present, and Future of Trump’s America, published in June 2021. [1, 2]
- Themes: The book examines how modern political conflicts connect to deeper historical currents in the United States, including white supremacy, migration debates, police unions, and the legacy of the Lost Cause. [1, 2]
Usage and Legacy
- Political Lexicon: The phrase became a widely adopted descriptor in political commentary to characterize populist movements, harsh immigration rules (such as family separations), and rhetoric directed at political opponents. [1, 2, 3]
- Broader Application: Analysts and commentators frequently invoke the phrase outside the Trump administration to describe political strategies that rely on outraging rivals and signaling hostility toward specific demographic or social groups. [1, 2]
The original article in The Atlantic states:
“It is not just that the perpetrators of this cruelty enjoy it; it is that they enjoy it with one another. Their shared laughter at the suffering of others is an adhesive that binds them to one another, and to Trump.”
I urge you to read the October 2018 essay, and the book. From the beginning of the second Trump term, from the the very first day with the horrifying Presidential Edicts, the cruelty has been increasingly woven into public policy. The policies are Anti-American, anti-immigrant, anti-women and anti-everything I was taught to believe as I grew up – That we are created and born with equal rights, male and female, black, white, yellow, red and all the glorious colors in between. “Red and yellow, black and white, we are precious in His sight.”
Our priest told us from the pulpit this week that we are “to carry the light.” Each one of us, individually and together, carries the light. We can choose to be kind. We can reflect “the light that shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
If it’s August, it Must be . . . Halloween??
In the olden days, when we were Cold Warriors, guarding European borders from the evils of the Soviet Union, smart military wives started Christmas shopping in August. We knew we were up against deadlines; any gifts going surface mail needed to be mailed by mid-November. “Last minute” would need to be sent by Thanksgiving, or, horrors, the first week in December, but that is cutting it very close if you want your gifts to actually arrive in time.
You get so you start your shopping in January. We didn’t earn buckets of money, and we could do well by dollar-cost-averaging over the ten months leading up to Christmas. The bases all encouraged us to plan ahead, put things on layaway, make wise decisions – all year round. Knowing the barriers, the custom is to help the service people deal with the challenges of a life of – you know – service.
Finding Halloween had come to our Base commissary the second week in August, just as school is starting, was new to me. We are in the United States! We shouldn’t need to be thinking two months ahead for Halloween!
Pensacola is a Navy-centric community. We have Navy bases here, a solid community of Navy families and Navy retirees, and of course, the beloved Blue Angels. So I am wondering, too – where is the outrage? Where is the pushback when the leader of our nation tells the sailors and their families that they haven’t been in the Straits of Hormuz long enough? Where is the outrage when he dismisses complaints about food shortages, supply shortages, and mental health problems from being at sea for such a long time with no respite?
There are traditions against complaining, so if the grumblings are being heard, there is a real problem. Our military is used to self-sacrifice. It’s the nature of the service. If they are complaining, we can’t tell our military people to just suck it up. We have to listen.
This war has been going on for months, with countless declarations that the war is over and the Strait of Hormuz is open, only to discover, again and again, that it is not true. Over and over, it is another big fat lie.
Wrap it up, guys.
Finally, A Quiet Moment
We’ve had a rough couple of weeks, starting with an emergency visit to a local vet clinic on a Sunday, then two weeks of constantly surveilling our sick cat. In the greater scheme of things, it’s not such a big deal, we say “it’s a first world problem,” but it creates a whirlwind of extra activity and extra work. We have three cats, and now, three separate places for them. We have our normal activities, and daily requirements. It all adds up.
Two of the cats, including the sick cat, are used to hanging out together, so they don’t understand why they have to be separated. Most of the time, things have been OK. Except at night. No sooner are we all settled, maybe even drifting into sleep, when one or another will start yowling, and scratching at a door, and you’d think it can only go on so long, but no, it keeps going on until we re-arrange things, and it’s good for thirty five minutes or mabe even an hour and then it all starts again.
So we’ve not been getting much sleep, and all this is exacerbated by the worries we have that our sick cat is not getting better. Today is a good day, but we are still worried not everything has resolved, and we have not gotten to the root of the problem.
But today IS a good day. One cat is at my feet, the sick cat, snuggled up and relaxed, which is a really good sign. The other cat, the one that joined our family at the same time as the sick cat is just feet away, on a stand looking out across the Bayou. Or, more likely, he is watching a lizard. He is crazy for lizards.
Most of the time, AdventureMan and I are pretty chipper. This cat illness, and the amount of time it is taking to resolve, and the amount of work involved in keeping cats all separated, and three litter boxes, and cleaning and all the laundry, and lugging the sick cat to the vet for x-rays and treatments, begins to wear on us. We aren’t so patient, with ourselves, with each other. We are tired. We take turns grabbing naps during the day, during cat quiet times, like right after feeding.
I barely know what is going on in the world, except that the Strait of Hormuz is not open, and our allies continue to grow in mistrust of our leadership and our lack of serious purpose. I’m too tired to get roused up as I believe the same insanity is likely to be reigning tomorrow.
I’m just thankful for these minutes of peace, that the sick cat is relaxed and sometimes you have to take what IS and say that this very minute is good enough.
Sunday at the Veterinary Emergency Clinic
My normal Sunday morning is quiet and contemplative. I get up early, whisper a quick “I’m going to church now” to Adventure Man and head out to what we jokingly call The Express Service. It’s for the quiet people who want to worship without a lot of embellishments and move on. Our priests are very good at respecting people’s time and creating a serene atmosphere for worship.
On my bathroom mirror is an ominous yellow sticky that says “wake me when you get up to talk about Uhtred.”
Uhtred is seeping blood and pus on his left flank. We know there are no options, we dress quickly to get to the Vet Emergency Care before the rest of the world awakes – we’ve been there before. It’s the only game in town, and weekends are busy.
We sign in. As they take Uhtred to the back to give him a superficial exam, a man comes in carrying a huge dog – maybe 80 pounds – who does not look like he is breathing.
We are updated on Uhtred’s condition and moved to a small room. A tech came by with water and an update – due to an all-hands-on-deck emergency, less urgent cases are on hold, Uhtred being a less urgent case.
We wait six hours. During these six hours, I take a break to go outside and walk; walking helps me calm my anxiety and keeps me sane. As I walk, I see another prostate dog come in on a stretcher, and desperate people with cages arriving. We’re under a high heat warning. It’s affecting our animals, too. We’re all desperate. We love our animals, and this is the only emergency treatment center open on Sunday in town. The wait seems endless.
A very competent doctor comes in and gives us two options: a stabilization one where we get him to our own vet the next day, and a complete treatment one, where they get to him when they can, but there are higher priority cases, and they just keep arriving, and they won’t get to him until late in the day. We opt for stabilization; we’d actually prefer Uhtred be treated by our own somewhat eccentric vet who has known us for years, and has treated all our cats.
We leave the clinic in relief after six hours with a cleaned-up, medicated cat in an “E” collar (for Elizabethan) to keep him from licking his wound.
As we leave, something extraordinary happens, something we have never seen before. The clinic closes its doors to incoming patients. There is one doctor, and 40+ situations awaiting her attention. Until they can bring in more emergency staff, they cannot deal with more. My heart goes out to them all, those who are trying to triage and treat these desperate cases, and those who are turned away when there are no other options.
We have a family dinner later in the day, this one an adult-only dinner where we discuss family situations and discuss options. We love these dinners, meeting with our son and his wife quietly, relaxed and open. We make a great team.
My daughter-in-law tells me there IS another option, further north, where we can take our animals under emergency conditions, a place they really like. Another resource! I am so thankful; I’ve never heard of this place, and it relieves my future anxieties about our animal emergencies.
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Early Voting in Florida
