Storm Door

 Storm Door I’ve been looking at storm doors for months now. My house was built in 1903, and has a beautiful carved front door. However lovely it is, the wind whistles through it all winter — last year I spent much of the winter with a piece of tape over the keyhole (my front door locks with an actual skeleton key — a source of much amusement when I visit friends in places like SF or LA where they all have both real keys, and security systems).

I shopped through a number of storm doors at the big box stores — but they seemed too modern for my old house, and while all the groovy features like the drop-down glass and built-in screens were cool, I didn’t like the shiny metal frames and the ugly door handles. Plus, the nice ones all ran about five hundred dollars, and with the financial situation like it is, I’m loathe to spend my work bonus if I don’t have to.

I stopped in my local glass shop the other day to see what they had — there was a really nice modern storm door, and then my glass guy pulled out a brochure. “You should look at these,” he said. It was a whole catalog of wooden screen/storm doors just like the one I currently have. Again, with installation, they were all going to cost several hundred dollars. I took the catalog and went home to think about it.

I’d just assumed that the storm/screen door that came with my house was outmoded technology. It’s old, after all. But there was that catalog full of brand-new storm doors built with the same technology, so maybe it’s not obsolete at all.

 Storm Door On Sunday I took the storm door insert down off the wall where it’s been hanging as a decorative object (it took me a year or so after finding this weird tiny door in the basement to realize it was the storm door insert for the screen door. Then I forgot about it in that way one does). It’s hard to see in this photo, but there are four screws around the edge of the storm door insert — I wasn’t even sure they were still working, but when I tried it,  the screen part came right out of the storm door and I slid in the storm insert. It fit perfectly. It felt solid.

 Storm Door So, I painted it to match on the outside, and there it is. A new storm door. All it cost me was a little switch in my thinking and an hour with a paintbrush. It does cut off some light inside, but it also feels pleasantly protective. As though we could have another big snowstorm and the snow wouldn’t blow in under the door. As though I’m battened in for winter. I like it. We’ll see what impact it has on my heat bill (a little weatherstripping is still in the works). And it was here all the time, a perfectly good solution. And when the weather warms up, all I have to do is swap it out again for the screen insert. Problem solved, nothing purchased. Now that’s a good weekend.

share save 171 16 Storm Door

Trying to believe …

I’m having a very hard time here at LivingSmall believing that Yes, We Can indeed do it this year, that we can vote a “transformational” leader into the White House. Despite the newspaper endorsements, despite Colin Powell’s strong endorsement, despite the 100,000 people gathered beneath the St. Louis arch — I’m fighting a nagging sense of despair.

The racism on display at the McCain rallies is so … what? horrifying? frightening? appalling? The open calls for violence, the gleeful finger-pointing and sneering claims that everything is just fine in America, that our wars are just and our financial system is not collapsing are so crazy that I find myself sinking beneath the weight of it all. It makes me wonder if this is what it felt like in Europe in the 30s, watching crazy leaders like Hitler and Mussolini rise to power.

It is my fervent hope that the numbers hold, and that Americans finally reject these politics of hatred and division. It is my fervent hope that we figure out a way to build an economy based not on geometric unsustainable growth (“the economics of the cancer cell” as Ed Abbey named it) but on some saner measure of growth, some sustainable model in which the income gap between rich and poor begins to shrink again and we see some way to rebuild our middle class. It is my fervent hope that we somehow manage to build a civic society based not on what divides us but on what unites us.

But in these last days of the election I am not as hopeful as I’d like to be. The forces of darkness that the powerful and entrenched are unleashing are very frightening to me. The financial crisis seems thus far only to be hurting the poor, who are being evicted from their homes (often, as in Chicago, from homes which they have been renting in good faith), while the rich seem to have figured out a way to back a truck up to the Treasury door to save their own untenable lifestyles. The calls from the right for voter disenfranchisement, the early stories about rigged electronic voting machines in West Virginia, the coordinated efforts to deligitimzie an Obama victory, these are all very frightening and disheartening.

I’ve been pretty sanguine until this past week or so. I always thought Obama would win, even way back when most of my friends were Hillary supporters. He won Southern Illinois, I kept telling people. Southern Illinois!? Not exactly territory for a Chicago black man with a weird name. But that wasn’t a race where he had a real opponent, and this time he does, not in McCain so much, but in the entrenched elitist core of the Republican party, that core who believes that the only “real” Americans are the ones who look like them, white, male, rich, “Christian.”

I grew up in the belly of the beast, in one of the true old-money suburbs where my classmates had brand names for surnames and where having to work at all, no matter what kind of money you made, was seen as something of a misfortune. I grew up in that world where blacks and jews were not allowed to join the country club, and where my parents generation still whispers when mentioning that the boy who grew up down the street married a black woman. The group who were, in the famous words of Molly Ivins, “born on third base and think they hit a triple.” They are powerful and unashamedly elitist and unshakeable in their beliefs. That’s why I left.

Instead of staying in the bubble and trying to either make that kind of money or marry that kind of money I’ve spent the past 25 years trying to figure out how to live in a joyful way outside of that system — the system where everything is judged by what kind of house you have and where you vacation and what clothes you wear and which schools you send your kids to. And Obama seems like the first leader I’ve ever seen who is talking to those of us outside the bubble. Colin Powell on Sunday referred to Obama as a “transformational” figure — and I just worry that at the last minute too many people will find that frightening, will not pull the lever for transformation, but will fall back on the old mess they know, the old mess with which they feel comfortable. But maybe I’m wrong — I certainly hope so. It’s hard to tell way out here where despite our Democratic governor and senators it’s still a pretty conservative, Republican state (and where there is still a big proportion of the voting population who will not vote for a black man). What’s the vibe feel like for the rest of you? Am I just panicking?

share save 171 16 Trying to believe ...

I’m such a wuss …

I had to have two cavities filled today. I am revoltingly healthy, in general (knock on wood). I broke an arm when I was eight, other than that, nothing. My mother claims that those of us who haven’t had kids are wusses, because we haven’t had all of our most private parts invaded by armies of medical professionals, and she might have a point. I also, thanks to the deities, inherited my father’s sturdy teeth. Aside from orthodonture, and a few cavities, I’ve been pretty lucky on that front. The last cavity I had was probably 15 years ago (and was filled by my former camp counselor, now a very accomplished dentist who alarmingly sang camp songs the whole time).

So, because I am a wuss, my dentist, who is also a friend, gave me so much anesthetic in that side of my face that I didn’t feel anything, which was great, but I came home and went to take a sip from a glass of water and thought the glass was broken. It felt like there was a big old half moon missing from the glass! Turns out it was just that I couldn’t feel anything. Weird.

And because I’m such a wuss, I broke into the stash of drugs left from when Patrick died — I took a lovely half a xanax before heading over there, but that, along with all the anesthesia, plus the letdown after all that adrenalin from being hysterical about having a part of my body drilled into with a drill — I came home afterwards and climbed into bed like I was eight years old. The dogs jumped up and settled in with me. We all took a very restorative nap.

It’s been a long few weeks. Sometimes, as much as you dread it, something like having a couple of cavities does give you the opportunity to take a nap. And sometimes, even though it was scary, and painful, and horrifying (when you are a wuss like me) on the other hand, it’s a good excuse to take a nap. And some of us, sometimes, need an excuse, because we’re not people who can just take naps.

share save 171 16 Im such a wuss ...

Pancetta in the Pantry

 Pancetta in the Pantry
This isn’t the greatest photo in the world, but here’s the 2008 pancetta in progress. This year I used the gorgeous pork I bought from my Milk Lady — it was significantly meatier than the commercial pork belly I bought last year. This proved something of a challenge when it came time to roll this puppy — it was more like wrestling than rolling, but I did finally get a nice, tight cylinder.

I started out with the pancetta in the basement, because it’s cooler than upstairs, but it’s so dry down there (this is the west, after all). I couldn’t get more than about 20% humidity down there, and it’s between 30-40% upstairs thanks to the winter humidifier. The pancetta seems much happier upstairs. It’s not drying out too fast, or getting that hard skin on it that Ruhlman’s book tells you to avoid. And it’s sort of cheery in there with all my home-canned goods from this summer. My inner old-immigrant-woman is very happy every time I look in there. I’m set for winter: pasta, tomatoes, pancetta, jam, a big basket of onions from my garden.

share save 171 16 Pancetta in the Pantry

On Walking

Yesterday afternoon, in the middle of the big snow, I realized I was down to only one egg, so I set off, with Raymond, for the little health food store a couple of blocks from my house. Ray hadn’t had a proper walk because of the snow, and I was feeling like I needed some exercise, and the roads were so crummy I didn’t want to drive. Well, Foodworks was out of my Milk Lady’s eggs, and what can I say? After eating her unbelievably great farm eggs for the past couple of years I just couldn’t bring myself to buy the “organic” “free-range” whatever commercial eggs. I wanted Isabelle’s eggs. And there were none. After a short round of exclaiming bad words under my breath I left the store and untied Ray from the bench and thought well, why not? We headed off on foot across town to the other grocery store.

Now, in the mornings Ray and I walk about 10 blocks to the dog park, do a lap or two, and walk back. The grocery store was only a few blocks further away on the other side of town, and I had a bag I’d brought with me, so off we went.

What I love about walking is the things you see. Houses you didn’t know were for sale. The acquaintance I ran into who I’d seen at the Obama fundraiser the day before — we chatted for 10 minutes about politics, about how we love living in a state so small our Senators show up for those things, about how great the music was before heading back down the block. On the way home, I discovered that the little Mexican restaurant that closed is coming back soon in a new incarnation serving Cuban and Latin American food. Then, when we got to Bill and Maryanne’s house, Ray went up their steps, stood at the gate until we all had to have a small visit because he knows their house, knows their dogs.  “Do you want to come in?” Maryanne asked and I said no, because by then we’d been gone over an hour, and I wanted to get home, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t fun to say hi, to remind ourselves that we all live here together.

Then a few blocks from home Ray ran to the end of the block, and because he knows he’s not allowed to cross the street he headed up the side block. I got to the corner and saw my friend Robin, in her car with her dogs. She pulled up. “I was about to get out,” she said. “I saw Ray and didn’t know why he was on this side of town by himself.” So we chatted for a few minutes about her husband’s campaign, about the fundraiser, about dogs, and then Ray and I walked the last three blocks home.

It was a good walk to the store. We got eggs. We saw people we like. We got a little exercise. We participated in the life of our community. It’s a good thing to get out of the car. It’s a good thing to walk, to slow down, to look at things and talk to the people we like. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to live in town (as much as my fantasy life involves a bigger garden and livestock) — because when you live alone it’s good to live in a place where when you go outside you see people, you talk to people, you’re involved in the communal endeavor.

And the snow was pretty too.

share save 171 16 On Walking